The acute pain of transformation, not simply of body but of heart and mind. Is it something willfully sought, treasured and rested in or the shadows that set men to flight? Who thrusts themselves in to the crucible, the cauldron the chrysalis of remaking? The man of sadness wishing something different, the man of content or the man who wants to know the hand of universal authority and power to temper, strain and remake that which has been weakened? Is this done by choice, chance or selection? And will an informed man of solid faculties choose this route as the golden path to God knowing it will burn, bite, stretch, nag and deliver the excruciating fires accustomed to steel’s temper?

Avoided it leaves men palsied to the internal understanding of their design. We seek what is coming, the next and to stay in the now becomes a jail of impermanence as all things expire in this realm. It is only to the next destination that we may hope for everlasting. We were designed to make that jump, that leap, that slow steady painful agony of Becoming know to moth and butterfly. Staying the same is the choice of the man who has determined forever limitation in the realm of quiet escape into the first iteration. Most will chose here, most will take any path but that one that leads to the soul pain of transformation and then still there will be those who believe they can find everlasting by any other means, seeking the easy route promised by those who will lead them to eternal punishment and flames. This deception of promised escape is honey and alabaster in the mention but tears and crunching teeth in its achievement.

This hurts so much Lord I keep asking to be removed from the machinery or taken from the path for fear of nerve’s bite upon my mind. Allow me to sit into the pain, to welcome its craftsmanship of heart and mind. Give to me the peace that surpasses that agonizing quality of being made for something better. Mold me, temper me, reshaped me into the tool that will be needed in the next place. Give to me the fruits of your Holiness that will allow me to function in the journey forthcoming. Make of me the saint you intended for the millennium that I may serve you in nature and form. Let me live the bold rebirth suffering the pangs of my recreation that I may arrive at time and quarter exactly where you would have me become.

The Rage that acts as keeper, Scientist and ruler of my thinking and deed. Flames raging in my pulsing forearms as my crushing grip threatens to damage any flesh given to these fingers without compromise. There will be no completion of God’s Will in my wrath only the pounding thunder of my fists upon body, brain or beast as outlet for the pain at seeing their frail little bodies littering the ground strewn about some art exhibit in horror.

The only freedom for the absolute furor is to pour it out upon man, rending, breaking, twisting removing life for life, breath for breath as I screamed each of their names into their faces as their life became mine to take, leaving God no fair dispensation of judgement. Taking time to take the time from them that they had stolen from my children.

I caught them on the other side of the levy headed for Myrtle Creek. Their carriage full of the booty taken from the local homes they sought to make haste without drawing attention in pursuit. They never saw me before my axe bit wholly cleaving one man’s existence in two parcels. The horses raged and reared at the sudden relief of blood upon their backsides spurring them to bolt and sending all in the carriage reeling from perched seating.

None had chance but that my intention for they had given no such mercy to the children of our town, the Mothers the Fathers who were lucky enough to defend them found quick faithful determination at the hand of ruthless men. They got no quarter they were put upon by fluid rage, a man beset with the fires of hell lit in his heart and the lightning and thunder of Olympian gods in his fists. The horses never stopped but each man had taken last breath before being dropped one by one of the speeding carriage to the unforgiving embrace of the dry Winter’s ground.

Fury, A cry of rage, pain, regret and relief sounded throughout the sullen, freshly snow covered valley. Silence answered back as if indicting me of my brokenness and the smashed expectations of peaceful evenings.

They lay steaming as I knelt, weeping, wringing the haft of my axe in my weathered grasp it felt good to remember the skills of my youth and to know they would hurt no other. I walked for a time then jogged in the soft snow leaving the red mess behind as I followed the wagon to recover the goods and take their horses. It would be viewed as the scene of a wild animal attack except the wounds were precise, overwhelming and final, no recourse, no forgiveness, they got the Eye for the Eye and more.

Rounding a short bend in the tree lined dirt road and saw the wagon stopped horses reigns held by the hand of a taller man, I knew him and he me, The Sheriff. Luckily the light had begun failing and he didn’t yet see the blood strewn across my chest and face, but that wouldn’t last as I continued at a jog and he had already seen it upon the horse team. Abruptly he drew his sword seeing my axe in hand, shouting, “Stop right there Leland”.

Absent this Wondrous Solid Foundation which surpasses ages, I would be pulled to and fro by your consistent desire to feed me folly. Why move a bush around the yard each day when your objective is its long slow maturation bearing fruit at the time and season? Some things are reasonable ammunition in argument that contends vacillation as norm. No one wants to be dragged from valley to mountain peak simply for the sake of seeing the next sunrise. There must be content and nutrition in the Bread we’re fed or we simply pursue riches designated their importance by man or myth. Fortunately for mankind there is some immutable ground upon which to make a stand for this life and the next.

I get it, you want people to proclaim your wisdom from footstep to forestall. How limiting the desire to be found wise after you’ve expired life by people reading your missives to repeat slogans, mantras and rhetoric that gives them some secret wisdom into the chess game of Life. Small question; wouldn’t it behoove all players to visit the creator of all things first to see if there exists and manual for the machinery? So rather than accept creation we are now going to say that we are the creators because we have defined the components of life and now feel the mastery coming upon us in enlightenment that we will somehow be able to make a machine think and call that Life. Why imitate the Father of all things when you may have unlimited access to discuss the mysteries of the Life He gave to all things. It just seems an inadequate choice based on faulty thinking to go it ourselves when the “Watchmaker” is making Himself available to all who reach out to him in passion and humility.

My desire to be the smartest guy was short lived and died unmercifully when the Female of our species slew him as he quested for her validation, approval and eventual adoration. Being smart has no reward other than personal unless it is embraced with the humility of purpose given it by those who know God gave it for a reason. Having talent is a responsibility to either consume that talent for self enlargement or to wield it with fealty to the Maker by employing it to see the most fed, refined, edified and then receiving the greater measure of subsequent reward in seeing a city climb the mountain to see the same sunrise you felt compelled to visit those lost days of youth and philosophy. We are presented with the dire message of time and reason that problems are indeed real and may not be solved without careful thinking and action. Some problems we have come to accept are beyond the scope of human intervention. Spinning on a pebble in space travelling 1000 MPH we are loath to entertain ourselves masters of a future on this planet without God’s direction or intervention. It was only one hundred years ago we invented the combustion engine now we believe ourselves capable of mastering Quantum Energies and nuclear interactions that power the universe without even acknowledging the massive intelligence it took God to create them.

I understand I am a fool, most men are, but I am not a big fool who cannot see his own folly. Humanity must be done looking at itself in the mirror of desired admiration and wake up to the facts that women don’t much like the man who cannot get over his own reflection and that men are here for Babies and protection and provision. Once accepting this inevitable Human drive we are faced with the maturation required of each man in his own evolution through trials that once we have created life as God bid us create we must then take care of it as it for the first period of its life cannot care for itself. What lay outside of God’s intention for my creation is really for him to pursue or direct. I don’t need to know all things to be a good man, I don’t need to be God to Love Him and I certainly don’t need to play with matches to understand how it feels to be burned or ignite those precious things in my stewardship. This life is mostly about Choice and the Choice I have made is to serve God’s Will for my Life, the Lives of those in my sphere of responsibility and to see that will fulfilled in the future of mankind.

Pursued. In the flashing wake of Memory’s Blade. Found among the ruins of reflection and regret, passed the hall of hidden meaning. Quenched, neck deep in the troubles of self production, remiss with no one to blame it upon. There is no destitution with a spurious cast of players available to recall. Losses are victories when played back to tabulate in review a life lived for experience, for mettle for arrival.

Pushing past exophora to lean upon the kinetic or siphon epinephrine from synthetic reason. Somehow continued, inexorable, perpetually plodding foot by foot as leather heels fight asphalt in Friction’s Score. The music of madness running from the light of night seeking shadow in the narrows of dominion over fever. Frightened by the love left in some forgotten closet revealing the truth about a heart beyond defeating. That caustic burn of belly and lung stung by the bug to keep going the miles are conquered leaving only a laundry list of things needing recovery.

What to or from shall an escape be exacted when fleeing toward a moment forgotten? Cards in pockets thrown upon a bureau reflecting names of people passed beyond the causeways of causality. Even those thoughts stacked neatly for retrieval have somehow been blown by the torrent having wrecked Tempest upon the Memory’s Coffer. Perhaps with a drink I will recall how to think and quickly make link to the annals. I pause to stop sputtering only long enough to fight the urge to run again.

And in the breath, I see Him, Pacing me now always to my left and if I’m not mistaken He’s Chuckling. To the limits and beyond into realms of energies unknown I fight for mastery of muscle and thought but they are not buying that I am worthy of command or faculty. Headlong into madness I hurl my mass finding acceleration and energy have halted.

The result is absurd said the wings of the bird as it took off to lands without thinking. Blinking commands and hostage demands said the terror within me I’m uncertain. The sense returning I fought to make reason from mystery and place sounds with words in hope of understanding my scripting. Sense had left the building and I was left with a hodge podge of seemingly unrelated nightmares.

But the picture taught of the hope found in courage as each fright abandoned I found comfort in never being alone though professionally tracked. Never dawning on me to fight for protection or resist the tail I simply ran on past reason and time. Then the hand upon my shoulder brought me back from separation with the material plane and suddenly I was myself looking down at the fat wallet he placed in my waiting hand. “The Truck Hit Me”, I said.

Straightening coat with the neighs of a goat I stumble from plaza to portcullis. My hard leather shoes water logged and dullen I planted betwixt his legs dropping him in agony thankful I didn’t miss. Tossing his convulsing person aside prepared to compete with the latch and the cleat suddenly the door is thrust open wide revealing what appeared as escape route. Flouting my good fortune my flight hurried at best clumsily devoured the hallways and stairwells in darkness hoping to make egress in some quiet alley.

No time for reflection as what appeared to be coming from every direction, the ravenous screams and sirens of Pete and Sally. The whole world had come alive to find little old me, breeder of naught that is worthy, spoiler of royal planning, head mage to the failed lambs cottage of magic. Unkempt by any means of etiquette and decorum I emerged a turgid site into the night that whispered to run til my lungs pop. Finding my way the left’s and right’s of fear’s path guiding me to the strangest location where I briefly may stop. Atop the wall and into the brush I flew with a rush still the night observing my flight I found my way into a graveyard. Staring into the dark nothing moved not whisper of gust no grasses, leaves or disturbed dust, the night was dead except for the rhythmic Malevolence of my own wicked little heart.

Unrehearsed, emptied out before your feet, hoping not for pity but forgiveness and the opportunity for rebirth. Lost in the wicked thinking of a man who serves himself god. Pouring over the pages and wishes, wants, worries and undignified dreams finding the tears now to recall the unrelenting sadness I was incapable of admitting or handling. Impressions abandoned time forgotten and missteps willingly acknowledged not for purpose but just because it is the right thing to do when you’ve squandered the Master’s assets and brought dishonor to a Father who wanted, supported and deserved the best from a gifted and blessed Son. There must be something hereafter. I know it from your Promises and pray beyond capacity to declare the hope that these words were and are still meant for a dishonorable bull’s posterior like me.

There is no validation, no going before a jury of unfaithful to find some semblance of reconciliation for the awful actions, thoughts and missed opportunities I sold for a handful of nightmares, daydreams and misdirection. Nothing stands monument to that investment but the gray palsied ashes of this life spent upon folly, frivolity and distasteful pursuit. It is okay this thing, this place to which I find arrival. This moment seeing the negative valuation of the stock of a man’s existence, watching now as observer no pray tell not wishing to participate but move on from the wisdom of the dismal, the failure of man’s own constructive nonsense, the years of fool’s delight and wish assets had been used to construct eternity instead. That is the price the painful nagging and gnashing regret, the worm that bites the mind as man is forced to catalog a life spent for naught. That is the prison of a life poorly pursued and God ill attended.

He sees. That is some consolation prize to find myself in the counsel of His Perfect Eyes. It is known, and to be known by ones maker is certain as each fault was crafted in silent purpose each failure a gifted opportunity to exalt each day a humbling gift provided to pursue the everlasting, to grow the crops that bring joy to the Father’s heart. yes, failure is a good thing when success leaves one wanton, questing for the next entry in the experiential paradigm. No pattern finished in tapestry all broken leading to labyrinthian wander and uncompleted divinity. What is not built counts as nothing in the datafile of a man’s life for their is wasted effort column only Nothing to show for time, treasure, gift and grace. Perhaps nothing is enough, smelling of smoke he will allow a man the chance to welcome those having served in good conscience. Maybe their sandaled feet will need cleaning as they seek audience with the King of Kings? Perhaps there is a spot at the back of the gathering for a man who has nothing left to offer but the shell saved from the wasting fire of hell’s consumption?

On this Floor Lord, let me lay not in sadness of having been total failure but merely seeing your feet I know that I have won. Whatever is made or done let it be of your counsel and provocation or order. For I have nothing left but the contentment and will to serve. That is perhaps what I have always wanted and it took me arriving at the foot of your Throne to see my True place before my God, Father, King. Home.

This day did not suddenly come upon me. This world did not so quickly bend to the will of those living upon its nectar. My allegiance to the things to come was not born in a minute but is the product of eons of planning and preparation. This name I have been given though worn with pride is the not the me I’m becoming but the person that must find the answer to struggle by wrestling. My dreams are not those of idle worship, but a life spent in radical pursuit of the God who lives within me and created me while I sat a thing in workshop. The life is not my own but is granted freely for me to spend upon the idols of experiential thinking or the arduous adventure in seeking the gateway to eternity and Him who reside thereafter.

These are not the principles of a man in leisure’s learning not the array of powers and authority of a son who has always done what is right and true, but that alone makes it particularly pleasing to find that the panoply of possibility beyond my wounded wife. In exchange for the inappropriate and those things that gained me pity or passion’s eye I find those pleasures reserved for Knight’s of Purpose. This was not the costume of the child that was given me. These are the robes of a man given recognition by something holier than even the greatest worldly treasures. Having no gold of men that’s proper and no wisdom of scientific renown, I thought somehow I would reach a point of displeasure and disappointment about the things I don’t have or couldn’t get. However it is the opposite. These are the things I’ve shed to be welcomed in the Presence of the King. How foolish that raucous thinking that somehow a man must be readied to stand before God when before time began we found love in His sight as simple Divine Thinking.

This is not the simple harmony of one voice singing to chickens of his unknown and wanton prowess. These are not the ramblings of a spirit disconnected from the flows of time, his own island in the desert of one man’s thinking. These are not the scratching and swooshing moves of a ninja carefully practiced and accepted in heaven. These are the dance steps of a man’s who has known the loss of love and the kindness of man’s cruelty. This is the purpose of something written on a scroll in dark resin by weeping passionate pious princess who had given all power for the opportunity to be free and watch the workings of a righteous King. This is no quest but brief gulps of precious heaven’s on promontory before next leap against the wind’s careful resistance to form. I did not find but lost and in so doing was given access to dimension and guidance beyond the maps of time. Yet, in the marvelous moment the only thing that came to mind was sitting in the stern watching as the Master Slept.

Stay, go, fight, run, deny, confess, rejoice, defend, explain. They all come to down to choice. Each day we are confronted with choices from motor perambulation, to food, finance and relationship choices, our day is strewn with those things about which we may determination. Though we do not focus upon the truth most of our choices are based on habitual beliefs ingrained by conditioning and experience. Even our views on what we are taught nightly on the news, internet or entertainment sources is driven by our beliefs. We believe certain sources credible, some entertainment palatable and some facts so outrageous we deem them conspiratorial or “Hard to Believe”.

We are suddenly facing a host of difficulties together. The world appears to in similar timing produced a series of tests that transcend national boundaries, culture and traditional concepts of what most humans believe the Norms of modern life. In the last several years there appears to be a prevalence of Global Problems that demand the creation of a qualified set of individuals specially suited to deliver those Global Perspective solutions that are beyond the myopic focus of what we will deem, Country Man. Though often believable these World wide problems have consistently originated from a similar class of elitist, academic, political or scientific group of bloodline nobility claiming to have special revelation as to the difficulties of man and how to resolve these world size problems. Unfortunately as we follow this new dilemmic we are forced to see that just as the solutions are coming from the same elevated economic peer group so do have the problems in theory or practice originated from these same High Society cultural elites.

In fact the historical revelation that this is a known psychological method of establishing and achieving group objectives has diminished the credibility of those heralding the problems themselves. As cultures begin to doubt the word being offered they begin to doubt the solutions as flim-flam attempts to hornswoggle to the population into paying the check. Now that historically trustworthy voices have become questionable at best we have entered a period of “Crisis of Belief” Where humans are struggling in a well determined effort to reestablish their own understanding in the review of information sources that have now been tested and proven reliable. The common understanding of problem, action, solution has been well labeled as an invention of the British elite to somehow identify themselves culturally as the only group of Civil Servants capable of producing solution to global problems. Human being now see this and laugh seeing the self arrogant and assured proclamation as a self-fulfilling political dance designed to set Britain up as the First Global Empire of the 3rd Millennia.

Yes, the world is facing problems that consistently transcend borders of country and even continent, but the assertion that there is only one Nation, Culture of Political band capable of producing solutions is in itself a manufactured prevarication developed by Hagel as the product of a paid scientific study by the British. In fact this one Sized fits all approach of a would be Global Empire is completely repulsive to many of the Colonies having shaken themselves free from the tyranny of Her Majesty’s authority. In fact the refreshing concept in reviewing multiple solutions has the world even reviewing China, Russia and other typically disbelieved countries as source for credible resolution. The world has effectively entered the crisis of belief that may be essential to launch a new wave of thinking in the world. Even now the globalist council humanity to let go of ancient concepts of God and the afterlife replacing them with Scientific reasoning and Quantum openness to somehow ushering in a Singularity that propels man into evolution. In fact the elitists so enticed by this idea of thinking have now begun applying Helal’s themes of this idea of evolution. And not having the patience of Job they seek to INDUCE such a transformation via gene manipulation or cyber implantation.

However, The world see’s their attempted extortion of history, concept and belief and have begun the full on resistance to these measure finding them incredible by means of elitist assumption. Now the Elite World Class has a giant problem of their own creation. They have gone so far out on the limb of this induced evolution that now they refuse the basis of Choice that makes up each belief. They demand that all Earth dweller’s comply with their self-proclaimed certain experiments in order to achieve the objective of their own world dominance. Believers and unbelievers alike are struggling with this concept as frail and old worldly. Most having lived their lives in some level of freedom and free thinking are now absolutely reluctant to entertain the scientific testing that the Elite say is mandatory to our continued existence. The problems that were first deemed resolveable by the elite class have suddenly exacerbated to extinction level issues having been made so by the creation of custom made virus as weapons and the imposition of Imperial Mandate as the righteous and Only solution to a problem they themselves created.

With the exception of a class of humans who fall in line with the philosophical, Political outcomes desired by the Elite most humans have now taken a step back refusing to allow themselves to be catapulted into the unknown quantum abyss of liberal quest for Global Domination. Our free will demands just that. If we were to determine to venture into an induced human evolution is will be by belief and Choice not by force of edict or mandate. It has become a war between what we deem as Elitist Bad and Evil attempts to make slave of mankind and any other outcome that allows mankind to determine its future by and through Free Will Choice and Belief. It is of no small consequence or reason that these are the gifts of God to All Men. God wants that all men will choose their path laying before us the choice of good and evil, life with Him or life on our own. This is clearly the best and most natural path for all men each of us having enjoyed the freedom to make our own choices as to belief, life, economy and status. Amazingly when we come to a Global Set of Problems we are forced through the incomplexities of God’s Truth to reduce to the simplest elements. Choosing What to believe is a Choice of each man and woman for it is the Free Will Gift of God.

Leeward yaw and Southern Paw puts right forward when march is called. Armbruster’s hook and Captain Cook, shook the tree so hard the mastiff stalled. The Queens in jubilation, never mind her exploitation of merriment and song gone for six days strong. After twenty one pop their cork time to dirty up the fork asking all the children if perhaps our bash may be right or wrong.

He loved those quizzical poems of deep leather tome’s with binding so sound and gilds all around, those tend to make the parlor quite musty. We found reason and wanted wisdom akin it. Nonplussed we fussed, infrequently we cussed to the teller and the feller who make’s whiskey out of wine. There is no convocation that will exemplify the nation to last throughout edification. we longed for the scents of yesteryear to relieve the fear of unfamiliar the gross and quite peculiar steering away from the queer to reflections quite clear we put the extemporaneous out of fashion.

And in the AM ridiculed for season. It’s so much last season and why one would bring up old fruit, last harvest or run to the root cellar for preserves when today’s pickings are sitting on the settee. Learning from leave behinds of greater minds then mine, I turn and twist to read each sign careful that I followed their design. Some plans wiggle and work because some jerk made refinement or restitution allowing the allowable. Rules and gems of wiser men circulate and perchance permeate the brief wakeful decency of social presence. When we refuse the collective dumb then some of God’s wisdom may catch hold creating welcome agreement and repository for greater reflection and discourse. Absent words we are just cackling birds praying someone hears our sweet song and comes along to swap; reasons, rhyme of action.

Lacking appropriate perspective, I stand back with eye closed and thumb up attempting some sense of confidence that she immediately sees beyond. The call out is often the best part of what a relationship is all about when our stuff is just fluff and we’ve all had enough of the fine and the rough. So we speak to each other in wonder, in passionate export of dreams and whisper that is seldom captured rarely shared and often left over sweetened or simply freeze dried for discerning man to ponder. Which way to the Witch Way and which pallet of rubbish shall I weigh and then defray to lesser understanding whilst mannered men demand wands and wakened potions or petrification or perspicacity?

Outside the yellow painted pavement my feet stand slippery at best constantly danger of listing past the wales. I dream of darkened spaces, where creatures of pressured madness lure me to make sense of their quizzes. Testing, tempting, release, recatch, dispatch then recall a worn ball of linen having been properly clawed by kitten. Rewritten rhymes of days when words meant more to men then simple statements of validity. Passions where love found itself competing for top billet. As the lesser minds of creation found hate, cruelty and bias their liking. Dragging humanity in to the depths and swirling wells of impurity, dunking it into its own excrement and vomit to teach it a lesson of the Power of petulant men. Stale the verb most equated with this leaking bag of existence referred to in the living. Dark because that is what men create in their moments venturing from truth and reason. Finding nothing but the reprobate absence of anything Holy we revile ourselves and seek to dive deeper into the nebulous night hoping that black is not the only dark, that something darker still remains.

Why Light? What grand warmth and brightness rekindles our flame each time we waken to find a morn’s anew? Men are choice and practice, failure and reinvigoration for this broken world knows well the repeat of its crimes. When wind blows slowly you bet to taste the ranky rose of yesterday’s hateful meaning or tomorrows convenient covetousness. There is nothing ripe or ready within my luggage, Master. Nothing safe for consumption or even worthy of mention to the youth in attempted edification. I have no brave stories of a world that employs power and kindness in right fashion. No tales of wiser men then I who shared to lurid and seismic giblets of days gone by well done or nights spent freely in the presence and cool knowledge of those speaking adoration. No this must be done through exchange. My stockade swapped for this tasty alluring beam of penetration you call light. I find it completely unfamiliar, torturous perhaps looking at every scar, crack and crevice, refining, defining, wandering into pockets and places into which nobody’s nose should find repose. It is in a sense soothing in its warmth as if comfort cocoon provided by sun or moon. But goes away even quicker than it came, stolen leaving the miserable greys and haze of persimmons rebound. Not excluded but cause for further investigation as the frustration of being out in the light is far less comforting than the warm shoulder it provided.

Above Wind River, looking out to the ramparts of God’s inhibition. Challenged to remain as silent as the freshly fallen snow upon the tarp, listening and watching the crackling bed of kindling capture the flame’s kinesis. What burdens come to the lost on slope or plenty? What worries fog the mind of man out in God’s wild. Sans men and the predicaments they flourish. Passions swept aside by the breeze and its dawning we may truly understand God’s Peace in that moment of societal world versus the truth Gift of God’s Housing.

In Promise we press on to the noon day at Summit. Baby Blues and sun washed visage tabernacle the moments with our Maker. On His Terms we recede leaving stellar charms alighting as the formidable Winter’s Cross paints its swatch across the desert. Falcon’s screech alerting the frightened of their coming. Somehow equalizing the unfair weapons of war. Dusk plays unfair tricks upon the eyes of Saints, remembering the mist of this world fading before our gaze. Was that something on the horizon in the distant greys and whites of the forests forgotten?

What hope of another free day have I when the only thing keeping a man from heaven is the will to try, stay and reason with God’s special gift of Glory. Alone with naught but those smelling the peppers and dried beef softening over sterno, I begin to reflect upon how little I have ever known. It is difficult to imagine an easy life for one so wisdom free. Challenged by most thought or deep philosophical reason my freedom was always found in the simplicity of God’s Truth. Not difficult unless wrestled, no hard unless resisted, a Comfort in the dark reaches of the night that I was meeting. Taking on chance and luck and destiny with the Trump card of faith. Armoured in Characteristics beyond my reckoning I met the sleep as some men tackle dreams.

Slow plodding, stick to shoulder several fresh fish tied to line. This day would bring good eats from the valley’s pleasure. Trip extended by the gift of God’s provision I reminisce the miles traveled and the way left to go before contact with this hapless world brought the displeasure of communication with those bound by folly. Yet the Love in my heart again refreshed by time with God’s quiet I recall my purpose and find rest. Hoping, no Knowing that men need this Love that God has infused into my spirit. They too are suffering the loneliness of brutal men wanting just a moment to be recognized and loved without effort or worth, but simply for their equal passage. This is the authority of God to Love where none should exist yet flowers. An indication of our Source, as the lake breeds the river so too is the founding offer the swells and growth of Love.

Vicious morn arrived as ordered, to accommodate the procession of daily carnage. My illegal presage, picked up by constabulary told them they need prepare. Yet for all their power and potency they lacked simple discernment and fore sight into logical military precision. It is not ammo, supply or communication hub I seek but heart. They having been given so many decades free reign to exercise their war upon humanity misunderstood painfully their exposed underbelly, their own vulnerability to dedicated philosopher. Their power, overwhelming to the innocent is provocation to saint, for it declares itself sovereign. Yes, with little s always missing the humility required to actually win wars knowing that except but for the Grace of God Almighty we are all just temporary by His Good Graces.

They feed upon the vulnerable, always the innocent must pay for their wicked lusts. It is the heart of their evil mandate, that no innocent things shall survive their terror intended to prove their mantra, “survival of the fittest”. Through tyranny they declare themselves the greatest power by consuming the unprotected, never dreaming until the moment I held their head in my crooked arms that they themselves could ever be hunted. Time to shatter their fraudulent hypothesis. Today I would take from them that which assured their mistaken prowess, the little girls and boys made captive by their frailty, the elderly languishing from malnutrition and medical care. They would know freedom from the wicked and being set free would find their will to stand as Sons and Daughters of God, against the maelstrom of the malignant, risen by the power of hell to consume mankind. Today I prepared a special shame for them in their tortured thinking. I brought with me 50 of the best women fighters I could muster. Women having lost their children to conquest, their husbands to the demons of war their parents to the grave of a world ill equipped to protect them. Today the wicked would know themselves pray, not from superior beings an idea they may plausibly accept but from the clever passions of those they thought incapable of fighting back against their cruel devices.

We had tunneled for months, organized, preparing each yard set in concrete or solid support we burrowed beneath their ramparts from the destruction of the village beyond. It’s cold remnants and darkened puddles reflecting the bombs dropped upon sleeping families were reminder enough of cruelty to give us focus to finish our work. We slept, ate and worked below ground taking care to conceal any egress from our battlements through the caves into the valley beyond enemy scout recon. We had perfect in our practice, not from arrogance but from humility, knowing that our one chance at victory lay in that perfection of execution. We fought for the lives of all those waiting, upon God to come and save them. Well God had sent us today and we prayed by His benevolent mercy that we would be enough to set them free to know the light of His love once again. Our tunnels 98% complete we prepared for distractive entry to draw their attention away from our breach point. In diversion we had stolen a small plane fueled to the top and stuffed with all things flammable. It would create such a conflagration at impact our assault would hopefully go completely unnoticed giving us the minutes needed to enter the hospital cell rooms and remove those for which we mounted today’s assault. We hoped none would die but knew otherwise as our pilot vowed to offer his own life to bring about the perfect diversion for entry. He honored his family as he descended over their walls aiming directly for their arms depot. The war begun.