Who is standing there before God like a scared child sulking, while she desperately tries to swop her Spiritual-treason for Mercy?

Oh you, oh Saxon, will deserve what the prophecies see regarding you. Look, between your lost “link” between animal and Homo sapiens, you will see your fall in death, in the bastardization thereof.

But the road now becomes steep for everyone and the snake also struggles to crawl up against the slope thereof. From the deep, dark pit wherein your Trojan Raca is hiding, his self-centered crying now resounds terrifyingly. In your countries his children becomes sick and soiled with the pestilence, while his large numbers infest your landscape.

Dark like volcanic clots, your destroyer plays on his primitive flute. In the terrifying sound thereof, he has already firmly decided. He steals your hair and he steals your skin. Yes, all your matter and identity he takes as his loot.

Look, your once clean window is now scruffy and filthy and the vision of the heaven-landscape is locked to you, forever. In his war-attack, the West is quickly halted by hunger, cold, pestilence, plague and unprecedented heatwaves.

Yes, your filthy, weak mixture of iron and clot causes an enormous cramp in your calf. So that you will sprain both your ankles because of this. Your entire image is crushed into dust by your big fall.

So, who is standing there before Elohim like a scared child sulking, while he cries desperately and try to swop his treason for God’s mercy, for Caucasian survival?