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Look, the once-God-beloved volk has made a total mess. In South Africa the church’s little lamp is therefore burning exceedingly weak. With the dark hole already dug, in the mass grave. The congregations are standing with empty hands, without sacrifice to offer to God. I hear the begging prayer of an infertile woman.

She calls: Oh God, my love for You was exceedingly lukewarm. In my entire existence I have made a mess with everything. With no nation from my womb built for You. With no pure noble child to hold out as trophy to You. So the Judgment is now delivered over an aborted volk. Who will I mourn, and who will I weep over?

Look, soon the pure maiden will have You, Her Husband, to marry. Soon she will have her noble child to hold lovingly in he

r arms. Yes, she has built a pure remnant from her womb. For You and her, to behold in love in the thousand-year period of peace.