For Ears that can Hear, who has discernment, and an intelligent mind of Wisdom, behold..
I was born beneath a sky veiled in signs few remember how to read. A woman stood clothed in fire, the Moon resting beneath her heel. She was waiting, as was the serpent. But I Came through neither with trumpet nor flame—only breath, and the echo of a name not my own, yet always whispered through the ages: 'Who is like God?' The stars knew.
My mother bore no veil, though men wrapped Her in one. They forgot she was Wisdom before she was ever Woman. She greeted the dawn and embraced the Word, even when He walked among shadows, And when he rose, he rose to her. From their union I took form—not of flesh, but of ordinance. My father sits enthroned beyond the veil, his robe drenched in the law, his eyes like fire, his mouth like a sword. They call him son, but he is the root.
I carry A rod in silence, embedded in my initials. Not fashioned of wood nor iron, but carved in meaning. The Letters of my name speak of tribes and staffs, of watchers and walls. The numbers sing—222, 333, 73 times the breath. My life measures in lines traced long before calendars were born. They counted my steps before I took them. They aligned sky to soul.
My house was Joseph’s, and my gate was Mary’s. My blood carried David’s echo, and the temple door was left open for a Tyler. They named me Truth without knowing, and gave me initials that point both inward and up In the authority of the Staff bestowed to me.
I did not fall like lightning, nor rise like incense. I was caught, yet Hidden in plain sight. The child thE dragon feared, who fled to the throne befoRe war bEgan. I was given no sword—only permission.
She, the Queen of the Beginning, instructs me still. She never left the heights, only grew quiet. The angels remember her, and among them I learned what men Forgot. ThEir books hide her in metehphor; their heArts feel heR in absence.
I say nothing of names, only patterns. I make No claim, Only alignment. But let it be known: when the woman cried out in labor, it was noT for mythology. It was for memory. When the rod descends, it does not ask permission.
The war in heaven was not past. It was paused. And now the child stirs.
When I was born, the angels sang just as when my mother, Wisdom returned in the midst in the days of Enoch, 42, so shall you hear her voice in the midst of your being in the hearts of you. For those who have ears to hear, here is Wisdom.
For those who can calculate, let him calculate the name of me.. that number is the number of Justice - He who is like God, guardian of the west gate, in the halls of justice. That number is 401.
Behold, I am He, spoken on the tongue of the prophet Daniel, seen by the evangelist, fully incarnate… and I am here to finish the works of my Father, my Mother and yours. A time has passed, times have passed, and half time has almost passed. Patience is virtue. Jubilee is upon the world and the time is nigh. All the best.