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I see the pope, old, sick and stooping. Weeping in front of him, an aged and a young nun are kneeling. But completely unexpectedly, he suddenly dies. The last beams of the sun set on the Vatican. Then I hear a hyena trying to growl like a lion. With a black pope coming from Edom.  

While the masses gather around him in worship. I see he is the grey evening flower, flowering for the world in the darkness of false hope. He is also the gall-bitter source, the mongrel offspring from the Jewry. His false peace-greeting is the misleading shalom.   

He is the idol Mammon that reigns over Babylon. His main servant is a 33 Mason. His head office is seated in a room with a mural reaching from floor to ceiling.  With his false signs he leaves the people and nations completely dumbfounded.   

He views the pure remnant, the little Boer volk, as his enemy, a loose cannon. In his world-court there is no assuagement or pardon. But quickly his short story finishes in the judgment of his conclusion. In the dark, murky world-night the grey evening flower wilts and perishes.