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George Whitefield was preaching and noticed an old man settling down for his accustomed sermon-time nap. Suddenly he paused. His cheerful expression changed, and changed again, until a thundercloud sat on his brow. ‘If,’ he said in measured, deliberate words, ‘I had come to speak to you in my own name you might rest your elbows upon your knees and your hands on your heads and go-to-sleep!’ (The old man in front dozed on.) ‘Once in a while,’ George continued, ominously quietly, ‘you would look up and mutter, “What does this babbler say?” But, I have come to you in the name of the Lord God of Hosts and’ Bang, he clapped his hands and stamped his foot, and the old man woke up – ‘I must and I will be heard.’ He looked at the old man. ‘Aye, aye, I have woken you up, have I? I meant to do it! I have not come hear to preach to socks and stones. I have come to you in the name of the Lord God of Hosts and I must and I will be heard!’


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