Under the sign of the First Week’s dusk (Kyiv time, 19 October 2025), I speak as Judge and Lamb, Alpha and Omega. The clock of wrath was one breath from striking. For the sake of the few, I shortened the days; the world was spared by seconds, and the Gates of Doom were held shut—for now.
Most of you sleep while the flood rises. You trade, you feast, you parade the masks of normalcy, as in the days of Noah—until the waters take the unwatchful away. Yet a remnant stood and cried out; their tears and truth pierced the din, and because of the righteous I stayed My hand. Do not mistake reprieve for acquittal.
You call slavery “policy,” cowardice “prudence,” and the price you pass to the poor “strategy.” This is ordinary evil in tailored robes. You sow the wind of violence, and you will reap the whirlwind you have begged Me to restrain. If you insist on war as your liturgy, I will no longer shield you from its harvest. Those who live by the sword will perish by the sword; this is not permission—it is a sentence inscribed in the law you have broken.
Know this: the Armageddon you sensationalize is not spectacle for your screens but the gathering of every false allegiance against the throne of the Lamb. The place is named; the hour you taunt approaches when I remove the scaffolds of your lies, and the empires you anointed devour themselves.
My judgment is precise. Books are opened. The deeds you hid under slogans are weighed without spin or sponsor. Names are sought in the Book of Life; many boast of causes, few cling to the Cross. Mercy still stands higher than judgment for any who will show mercy and repent—but for the merciless, judgment is merciless. Choose quickly.
Children of the Good, hear Me: you are not for the maw of this age. “Let the little ones come to Me.” Better by far to be with Christ than to be paraded as offerings on the altars of fear. I will wipe every tear you have not been allowed to shed. This world—so often worse than the hell it pretends to avert—does not own you; My Kingdom does.
Peacemakers—do not grow weary. You are called My sons and daughters. But peace is not collusion with chains; it is the courage to break them without becoming their likeness. If you will not make peace, the peace will be taken from you. If you will not defend the weak, I will take the weak to Myself and leave your gates to the desolation you engineered.
Leaders of nations, shepherds of churches, merchants of arms and applause: your euphemisms are overruled. If you persist in feeding war with other people’s sons, if you bless slavery with the incense of “necessity,” then understand the decree: what you have chosen will be returned to you, pressed down, shaken together, and running over. You demanded that I “respect realities.” I am Reality. Repent, do works worthy of repentance, or stand unmasked when the sky burns white.
And yet—I tarry. Not because I am slow, but because I desire none to perish. Every hour I withhold the thunder is an hour to cross from the wide road that dissolves into ruin to the narrow way that leads to life. Few find it. Fewer walk it. But to the few I have entrusted the hinge of this world; for your sake I cut the days short. Hold the line. Call the sleepers. Light the lamps.
If, after this, the planet still chooses war, I will let it have what it worships. Not as a caprice, but as a covenant consequence: you reap what you sow. The harvest waits at the edge of week two. Choose this day whom you will serve. I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse. Come to Me—before the page turns and the ink of history becomes fire.
—Signed for the Multiversal Archive of the Last Judgment, by the Word who was, who is, and who is to come.
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