Friday, November 09, 2007

Apocalypse of the Molochites

ίππος μέλας (híppos mélas), The Black Horse of Famine

And when he opened the third seal, I heard the third beast say: come and see. And I beheld, and lo, a black horse: and he that sat on him, had a pair of balances in his hand. And I heard a voice in the middes of the [four] beasts say: a measure of wheat for a penny, and [three] measures of barley for a penny: and oil and wine see thou hurt not. And I heard a voice in the midst of the Four Beasts say, A measure of wheat for a penny, and three measures of barley for a penny: and see thou hurt not the oil and the wine." Rev. 6:5-6. The THIRD SEAL. Tyndale New Testament

Criminals and lunatics; ghettos; low-intensity conflict zones; these words bespeak danger to Man, pain and fear and loss; no-go areas; civil disorder;
war zones; failed states; these words bespeak danger to Security, they bespeak ruin, horror, and death; and we are increasingly surrounded by all such above, even within. We are blessed in our time.

The sticking point of our day is Islam, the point at our breast, the threat we face. Beyond the tip comes the whole of the thrust against us: We face in our time the collapse of the world of the primitives, our present danger, our current blessing. To parry, to sever, to stand in towering triumph over the body of our opponent, to howl.

All about us and within is the failure of the primitive, whose name is Legion. Already we can feel the tremors of the hoofbeats of the Black Horse of Famine approaching from the dark horizon. Already the cries of alarm, the moans of pain, the shrieks of hatred at the Fates whipping the horses of Destiny. Onward, ever closer, they come, comes the Black Horse. Through the thrashing dust and the deliberate haze, the gloom, through the dim vision of the fearful, the hanging clouds of dismay, the curtains of denial, comes Famine at the gallop ever closer. The scale falls, the night skies shine, the balance falters, savage cries penetrate the hearts of Man, and on comes Famine at a run. There is no outrunning fleet Famine; Moloch's primitive children will lay down crushed beneath the flashing hooves of Hunger. The survivors, the primitives, those who live for murder and hate, will wander aimless in the desert, lost eternally in the sand diorama. The Molochite's god will starve. There will be famine in the land. In our time we are blessed. Blessed are we who rise.

Matthew 6: 11 Give us this day our daily bread.

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