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History will judge our generation harshly, and rightly so.  All of our blather about choice, as if death’s venue matters.  The snuffing out of an innocent life is wrong whether it takes place in a concentration camp, a movie theater, or a mother’s womb.

Back in 2004, I took my oldest son, Aaron, to a “Phatmass” get together in Dallas, Texas.  Pro life organizations had booths set up and one table in particular had a business card sized hand-out with a picture on one side showing an aborted baby’s severed arm superimposed over the face of a dime.  The back side had a picture of a mass grave at Dachau.  That has stuck with me over the years.

Whenever I hear somebody start talking about a woman’s right to choose the death of the baby growing inside her, I think of the free southern gentleman’s right to own slaves.  I think of a corrupt government’s right to abduct and torture political dissidents.  I don’t think about hearts and flowers.

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