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I hear words in a song teasing. Oh, the Boer Freemason, still the servant of the khakis. Who to this day fights against his own blood. Therefore, see, oh Elohim, the tremendous injustice. Listen how Your people are mocked and teased by the whole world.

She has no right to fight for her property or life in self-defense. See her bleeding wound and come, oh, come our Savior, to bind it up with Your Love for healing.

Bring Your judgment, bring in Your sickle and gather from the chaff Your end-time noble sheaf. Sift out the good wheat and begin to carve up the bran for the fiery furnace. Long enough Sion has been trampled by unclean feet and oppressed on her own blood-bought estate. So that she had to wander through the ages, through wilderness upon wilderness, for survival.

Bring her back, O Elohim, to Mount Sion so that she may inherit as the firstborn under Your Melchizedek priesthood. I hear the last words of the mocking song die away. And I know that God is coming to mend the bleeding open wound of His beloved Boer volk.