Thursday, January 31, 2013

Those Who Hear the Teacher's Flame

I first published the following symbolic prophecy in the spring of 2006, just under 11 years ago. The first of three is titled Eleven now speaks to you urgentlyThe second of three is titled Say Woe, Woe, Woe, to serpents' wings by 13

Here is more insight into the motives of the Vatican and rich and powerful cohorts, who are desperately struggling to defeat me and truth and justice, in their efforts to prevent the outcome of the ancient prophecies they have long used to gain power and authority. Now that I have "returned" and "arisen" they have proven their true nature and purposes... 

NOTE: I have made a point to warn people that I have been using some well-chosen misdirection in recent years for a very special purpose. The above statement used to include the term "royalty" which as with other terms is too imprecise and that was its purpose. Some "royals" have actually been part of the effort to secretly protect me from the Vatican, for various reasons, as have others here in the USA and elsewhere. 

Here is Wisdom...
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Those who hear the Teacher's flame turn sharply to the perfect path, eating simply of the ancient sages' dual stone. Tearful pit dwellers, shaken mightily by the light, ascend from the abyss before a seventeen-star-filled wind. Their once-bottomless graves, now cast within three bitter corners, cause the deaf and blind to swallow strength from shame. Walking skyward, their works without-hand, in the midst of sun-clothed snow-clouds, rains burning hail about the heads of unclean men, women, beasts, and creatures dwelling hungrily roundabout the Earth. 

Dark and weighty folly sorely pains the tri-tongued captains, writhing within vestments marked by oil, wine, and earth fouled waters. Purple dragon-riders voicing foul spirits darkly, from atop scarlet-fleshed beasts, greatly inflamed the Lady's ire. Seeing Her reigning First and Last, serpents' tails burn up wrathfully, striking seven times among lowly heads and hills, wielding brimstone rods and reeds afire. 

As tempests rage before balances false, lead-talent-filled ships cast out blinding dust, falling darkly weighted beneath burning waves of sailors' feet. The First and the Last ascend thunderously above the lightning crossed eastern sky. Rudely awakened, enlightened multitudes force the sacred-pomp to drink of flaming wormwood cups, filled patiently by worn out saints, crying loudly after ages-old bitter tears and shed blood. 

153 drunken fish, blinded seven ways by oil, strong wine, and unclean loaves were smoothed by Simon's 21-rock-weighted triangular net, within Babel's bottomless pit. Redeemed from strong delusion, they turn once-fouled eyes to the air, hearing lightning thunder seven times about hidden names from time eleven. Greatly inflamed, they justly trample dark oily rivers beneath brightly burning feet, gathering upon the hidden cloudy peak of ages to quake mightily before days end in the midst of roaring stars. 

Clothed by seven eyes strengthened by seven horns, newly sighted seekers walk meekly within the midst of the perfect path's hidden throne, hair purified seven ways by flame of fire. A bearded star roars so fiercely that the city upon seven lowly hills quakes grievously, wailing tearfully about shadowy serpentine dens and rocks. Scorched alive by stellar wind, they shamefully drink about double doubled horns afire, long hidden within the golden altar's simple ark. 

Sorely shaken heads of gold fall beneath ancient corner stones arising, justly numbered by reed, plummet, and eleven stars bowing roundabout the eleventh son. The ancient Lady's seven pillars, hewn without hand, were long over-shadowed by scorpion-tailed red dragon's feet of clay and iron. Shining fiercely above felled serpents' heads, they thunder to life about the burning lake's heated path, as seven stars strike pompous cities by three. Cast heavenward, a great eagle cries upon dual wings among creatures four and house of eight within raven's song about the end of earth-bound days. 

Hearing roaring harps trumpet their names, jubilant shofars' sing mightily. Sounding sharp and strong roundabout the hidden throne, they gird the many-sighted Fire-Lord, smiting the darkly writhing harlot queen, who waxed rich, overly-proud, blind to sorrow, and drawing smoke about ages of oil, wine, shed blood, and tears. Though cast sacred by the unclean dead, its seven beastly heads fall forever beneath an ancient cloud-born stone afire. Gnawing tongues greatly pained by talent-weighted hail, wine-sodden iron feet of clay flee wailing before spark-filled tempests, poured-forth unmingled from the Lady of the Lake's long-simmering cup of bitter promises. Finally freed of great folly from serpents' reign, Earth, Water, Air and Fire shine roundabout the living fountain stone. Its pure waters aflame feed sun-lit paths as multitudes sing guileless about emerald times, strongly quenching thirsts for simple ways before peace sounds, forever and ever. 

Your humble friend forever, 

Seven Star Hand, 
a.k.a. The Branch, 
a.k.a. MelchiZedek 
a.k.a. The "Lion of the Tribe of Juda" 

Here is Wisdom!!