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In the mind games born out of night visions, a once holy nation is crushed like a moth. Therefore, listen to the lamentation of Job and see the trampling of Jacob in the last days. Look, the Boer is standing paralyzed on his knees, still without sense or any wisdom in his empty head.

With nothing that goes right for him for any prosperity, he still casts his poor lot before the goddess of fortune. Some among them still live in wealth, while their soul dwells around in the neighbourhood of the hovel of Cush.  They openly worship Here-Balaam the world-god. Therefore their attempts will no longer succeed.

Soon there will come a big world prohibition, with nobody that will react to their offer.  The last of their harvest is eaten by their enemies without any compensation. Again they are trampled, hit and kicked. Their land is taken from them, Just like Naboth’s vineyard.

Weeping angels stand closer enthusiastically, to save them from their misery. But by heaven’s command they are quickly stopped. So, weep oh Boer, there where you, just like Job, have to bottle up your feelings on your ash heap. Know, soon the white liberal South African woman will begin to scrub the floors of her servant.

From the mind games born from night visions, the Boer is crushed like a troublesome moth. This while his enemy openly mocks and curses him. Like a sadist he enjoys your sorrow with much pleasure. Therefore, our Only, Set-apart God, see Your volk lies trampled in the Africa dust.

They weep, they cover their tears under a grey, mourning karos. Think about them, oh Father, while their brothers would abscond overseas. They kept their post here on this side of the rivers of Cush, faithfully.  Yes, even when their future-vision was so senseless and faint.  They still tried to sing to Your honour and to praise You, even if it was in meagre words.

Look, they have no blessed altar, with no offer or sacrifice for You, their God. But still they stay Your shelter in the wind, under the meagre leaves of the old Karrob tree.  The single shoot that will blossom to Your honour in the new period. Therefore, let Your holy angels free, to come to Jacob’s rescue.

Raise your servant Job from Raca’s ash heap dust. Look, they weep like small, dirty little children, with their faces covered in tears and snot. Al that they truly have left, is only You, their Only, Eternal, Set-apart, Father, God. Look, from the afterthought of a mind game from a night vision the warning word comes, just like it was once directed to Lot.

It says: Come out of her system, my volk, and do not once look back at her world treasures. Your enemy will indeed be stopped in his tracks by Me. Look, I send the Angel of Death on his Grey Horse in their midst at a fast gallop. Through their own fraud all the laws of their court perish in the big discord. This, while their kings kick up much dust.

But to your rescue, oh Jacob, I will in the future cause the harvest on the fields and the food on the shop shelves to rot. On machetes the blood will cling and clot, red and sticky.  Death comes in the downfall and it now becomes the lot of Cush. The oppressor will trample himself into a pulp. So, in the mind games born from my night vision, the Boer will indeed be saved out of his misery by His good El.