These images, six in number, all depict open books in candlelit libraries of antique splendor—tall shelves receding into shadow, arched windows latticed with faint daylight, quills and inkpots at rest, flames trembling in brass or glass. The books themselves are Qurʾāns, every page Arabic, every line canonical, every frame a tableau of scholarly solitude. Yet the sixth image alone introduces a bilingual edition whose right-hand page bears the heading APOSTLES in English, followed by an Arabic translation of the same word, and then verses that are not from the Qurʾān at all but from the New Testament Book of Acts. This single intrusion of non-Qurʾānic scripture into an otherwise unbroken sequence of Qurʾānic images demands a comparative reading—not like the Qurʾān is a mere variant among scriptures, but like a sovereign text that measures all others by its own immutable standard. Begin with the first image. The left page ends with the closing verses of Sūrat al-Baqarah (2:285–286), the right page begins Sūrat Āl ʿImrān (3:1–3). The final āyah of al-Baqarah is the famous supplication: “Our Lord, do not impose blame upon us if we forget or err… grant us victory over the disbelieving people.” The first āyah of Āl ʿImrān is the mysterious letters alif-lām-mīm, followed by the affirmation that God is “no god but He, the Living, the Sustainer.” The transition is seamless, the gutter between pages invisible, the text flowing as though the two chapters were never meant to be separated. This continuity is not like the chapter divisions in the Bible, where Numbers ends and Deuteronomy begins with a change of speaker, a change of covenant, a change of landscape. The Qurʾān refuses such rupture; revelation is one river, and the surahs are bends in its course. The second image opens Sūrat al-ʿAnkabūt (29:45–46). The left page commands recitation of the Book and establishment of prayer, then pivots to interfaith etiquette: “And do not argue with the People of the Scripture except in a way that is best, except for those who commit injustice among them, and say, ‘We believe in that which has been revealed to us and revealed to you. And our God and your God is one.’” The right page continues with the prohibition against insulting other gods lest they insult God in ignorance. This passage is not like the polemics of Paul in Galatians, where the Torah is a curse from which Christ delivers; nor is it like the imprecations of some Psalms that call for the dashing of infants against stones. The Qurʾān here legislates civility even in disagreement, a courtesy rooted in the conviction that Abraham, Moses, and Jesus all spoke the same monotheistic tongue. The third image—already treated at length in the previous commentary—presents the opening eight verses of Sūrat al-Kahf (18:1–8). Its unbroken sweep from praise to cosmic annihilation is not like the Genesis creation account, which lingers on days and evenings, or the Johannine prologue, which spirals into metaphysics of logos and light. The Qurʾānic passage is compact, rhythmic, warning and consolation braided into a single strand. The world is zinah, adornment; its end is ṣaʿīd juruz, barren dust. The candles in the photograph burn as though aware of their own mortality. The fourth image returns to Sūrat al-Aʿrāf (7:54–56). The left page declares creation in six days, the right page forbids corruption on earth after it has been set in order. The six-day motif is not like the Priestly account in Genesis 1, where the Sabbath is the crown of creation; the Qurʾān mentions no seventh day of rest, only the istiwāʾ ʿalā al-ʿarsh, the settling upon the Throne, an image of sovereign completion rather than cessation. The prohibition against fasād is absolute, addressed to vicegerents (khulafāʾ) who are trusted with the earth’s stewardship. This is not like the Noahide covenant, which permits meat-eating and institutes capital punishment; the Qurʾānic ethic is ecological before ecology was named. The fifth image repeats the fourth, a redundancy that underscores the gravity of the message. The same verses, the same candles, the same window. Repetition is not like the Deuteronomic restatement of law, which expands and interprets; here it is photographic, iconic, a visual dhikr that invites the eye to linger until the heart absorbs the warning. Then comes the sixth image, the rupture. The left page bears the heading APOSTLES in English, the right page ACTS in Arabic, and the text beneath is Acts 2:22–24: Peter’s Pentecost sermon declaring Jesus a man attested by God, killed by lawless men, raised by God. The Arabic translation is fluent but secondary; the English heading is primary. This is not like the Qurʾānic citations of Gospel material in Sūrat al-Māʾidah (5:110–118), where Jesus speaks in the first person, denies divinity, and is exonerated on the Day of Judgment. In Acts, Peter proclaims resurrection as proof of messianic claim; in the Qurʾān, Jesus is lifted alive to God, his return promised but his crucifixion denied. The bilingual page thus stages a theological collision: the same library, the same candlelight, but two irreconcilable narratives of the same man. Across the six images, then, a pattern emerges. The first five are not like the Hebrew Bible’s narrative arcs or the New Testament’s epistolary debates; they are snapshots of a text that claims to be the final, unmediated word of the One who spoke to Moses in the burning bush and to Jesus in the upper room. The sixth image is not like a harmonizing gloss that reconciles contradictions; it is a mirror held up to the Christian canon, reflecting back a Jesus who never died on a cross. The candles do not flicker between the two; they illuminate the difference. The libraries themselves are neutral ground, neither mosque nor cathedral. The arched windows evoke Gothic Europe, yet the script is unmistakably Arabic. This architectural ambiguity is not like the syncretism of late antiquity, where Isis and Mary shared iconography; it is a deliberate anachronism, a visual argument that the Qurʾān can inhabit any space of learning because truth is not bound by geography. The quills and inkpots suggest authorship, but the text claims to be uncreated, eternal, inscribed on a preserved tablet. The candles suggest contingency, yet the message they light is absolute. In relationship, then, the Qurʾān is not like the Torah, which is law and story; not like the Psalms, which are lament and praise; not like the Gospels, which are biography and parable; not like the Epistles, which are argument and exhortation. It is recitation, reminder, criterion—qurʾān, dhikr, furqān. The images do not illustrate this; they enact it. Each open book is a miḥrāb, each candle a minaret of light, each library a mosque without walls. The sixth image alone admits another voice, but only to let the Qurʾānic silence that surrounds it speak louder: the final scripture needs no dialogue to establish its primacy; it needs only to be read.