“Ay; an’ for their daughters, too.”
While I watched the big seas break on the rocks below—and the clouds drift up from the edge of the world—I pondered upon this strange teaching. My mother had never told me of the women waiting at the gate.
“Ah, but,” I said, at last, “I’m thinkin’ God would never allow it t’ go on. He’d want un all t’ sing His praises. Sure, they’d just be wastin’ His time—waitin’ there at the gate.”
Skipper Tommy shook his head—and smiled, and softly patted my shoulder.
“An’ He’d gather un there, at the foot o’ the throne,” I went on, “an’ tell un t’ waste no more, but strike up their golden harps.”
“Why not?”
“They wouldn’t go.”
“But He’d make un go.”
“He couldn’t.”