bastard of epiphanes, The Lord God knows you from the dark spawn which you were conceived of. You who sit upon the many waters have dawned on the world unseen, but your time is short.
You who preen as a god in the land of Hercules, not knowing your stories were legend from Jacob's clan in Samson, have the mystics and the answers, full of beauty and wisdom, but the craft of your season will catch you in the pit of the myre of your own funeral pyre.
Awake dawn and behold dark sun, let the moon shine on as blood, for the procession is none for this one. They will not cry nor lament, nor burn for you. They who are left will gawk as for the freak of nature you are.
You who claimed worship and marks. You who are the ejaculation of the kenyan bastard. You who are built from the ground and thought of the heights are a fiery haunt of smoking owls and burning hyenas.
I know who you are as it has been announced. You who prey upon the world and take her as your prey. You who plot mischief in making in kidnapped royals and pretext invasions. You who lust for Nubian oils and Nile rivers. You who prowl about in the dark African underbelly to set your pegs in the Promised Land. You have been foretold of honor, but you have been foretold of your end.
Sacrifice to the adversary upon the Mountain of Fire where it once walked for in that abomination and war against the Son the world will be assembled.
Look there are the rivers dried to the sand for the armies to come.
The bridle blood is not of the veil, for the veil is a shroud and the bit in the horses mouth is the measure for this wedded splatter as the land is no Virgin and has been Witness before in other kings great and small having sentence passed upon them.
Bashan, Jericho, Riblah and Sodom and her clans, Tyre by the sea, and that one built upon the foundations of the Jebus clan so many times over. The land cries of blood from Abel, but His Righteous is sure, while let your name be called, base, for your iniquity is certain.
Warlord of a pretty suit. Suits upon the ground in pretty wars. Wars upon wars heaped. Heap upon the earth scorched. Scorched to the grave and the grave is hell.
You will die the death of the uncircumcised. You will die without hand for the Lord has seen your counsel and heard your apostate word. You who make the world your glory and the glory is not a grave but worm which dies not and a thousand year stench of bones to be buried.
Surely you come by conjuring enticement. Certainly you go by Law of the Judgment.
Alas the 7th comes as the 6 have all gone. Downward to the grave. For in the treaty of peace begins your epitaph, in 7 years end in the 70th week and the 483rd day.
Say not a thousand, but know but a year, for a day is a year in 69 weeks already played.
You will die in the autumn as Atonement is made.
Sink Babylon in your daughter. Break the pillars of the mystery of Ninevah's whore cult. No more will you put your phallic flesh in bloody waters or sewage shore mining for natal blood in child sacrfice.
You bastard who calls yourself illustrious, call yourself instead illegitimate, who rose from the many waters and in tempest made them chop, now drown in sands and are be buried in the fiery hot.
You are the little horn. The mongrel born. The effeminate queer. The prostitute dressed by the Virgin's stolen gain.
You who was not, and is, and will not be. Your star has fallen while yet you were born.
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