Tyrone writes again

Once again, I've had to turn to my old buddy Tyrone Butler to help me out of a flash fiction hole. Mr B, the floor is yours...

As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…
The hot whisper, the breathless quaking rush of words nearly makes me change my mind. Nearly. She glimpses up at me, her eyes wide and brilliant despite the three a.m. murk of the room. As I catch her eye, she whips her face away and whispers into clasped hands.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women…
Well whaddya know. I never realised she was Catholic.
Come on, I tell her. It’ll be easy.
She whimpers and retreats further into herself. I am the resurrection, and…
I tell her to can it. This ends now. She crucifies me with her eyes; they’re all dumb terror and hideous knowledge at once. I smile, flatly, and she gives up any hope; she recognizes the look of death on my face.
I begin to type.
You’re not God, Tyrone, she hisses. Our Father, which art…
I look away from her face and go on typing. In three sentences, she is dead. On a wing, and a prayer.