At the little creek of Crit, a man once sat. He prayed to God and said: Oh look, the heart of Your volk is as hard as stone. So bring down your sword and make a clean cut again. Yes, so that everything and everyone can once again split into two.

What is black and what is white and who is Boas and who was Ruth. Look, the Child in the crib comes from their chronicles. Peace was the supposed understanding, but it was cut short by envy and hate.

So, let the unrest now bubble and also ferment, so that Caucasian and Cush can strife constantly. Yes, to the day when the big Russian will almost completely annihilate both sides. Man now have to accept war because there is nobody that can extinguish the flame anymore.

A dense fog descends onto earth and in famine nobody can relax or rest. Look, the Pestilence throws her net and Death throws his noose and it is only the God-sealed that will escape the cruel lot, untouched.

In the minus as well as the plus, the world-economy is stone-dead in her coffin. From the past to the present – from Genesis to Leviticus – the church has always missed the point. So, harness the horses now in front of the war-wagon, you, children of Logis. Pierce the liberalist, they who are calling peace, while there is only madness everywhere.

Look, oh worldling, you are now sentenced and it is certain. At the new little creek of Crit, the prophet sat down again. On their own, the volk tried hard to pray together. But instead of bread, the crows only brought them hard, dry clods and stones.

Yes, the crows bring a poisonous snake instead of a noble fish, while bitter Mara drips into their drinking glass. So, bring oh God, your Sword again, and make a new cut. So that the paths of fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, brothers and sisters, can finally split.