PROPHETIC WORD: Get Up! Get Up! Get Up!

(c) Nicki Black

September, 10, 2005: Sifted. Gathered. Tied like a mighty tower of stalks of wheat. We are shaken and left to fall. Those who remain on the rod will also die by the rod.

Mountains will cower below like eruptive flames, sent to slither away on hands and knees, cast down to eternal subdued voiceless stillness.

A flame burns with precision along the peripherals. Slowly. Slowly coming closer. The blue of the fire is upon the horizon. We are looking through our spectacles backwards. It is closer than it appears. We look behind to see it on our stride.

Like a rushing wind, bellowing and giving trace to the outlines of our skin, we are changed and filtered some more. We are left to our faces on the holy ground, splayed out and slain. Evicted from the yoke of the night. Yielded. Released from the contract. Bound no more.

Freedom. Arise! Get Up! Get Up! Get Up! Strip off your bedclothes - the rags of your death. Hold harbor the few, given eye of the storm. Led by the visions and beacon in yet night will and has illuminated. Children awoken from their deepest of slumbers to speak and heave forth from their bellies, making clear for the way of the Father to heighten their hunger and tighten their belts. Children calling to the wilderness to Get Up and Arise a new nation. Stopping not to wither and die. Stopping to slumber before the travail.

Arise! Get Up! Get Up! Get Up! Worried and frolicked we are. So straddled into a deceptive fence of which we ride. Hurled forward and back. Rocked and cradled. Who reigns?

Arise! Get Up! Where are our fathers before, who penned the water's warriors? Watchful. Withstanding. With so much as without so that we may have with. Where are they now, generations begat?

The hand has lifted but the body remains, apathetic and tired. A mere waif of what it was. Yet still, silence is defeated with even just one.

Arise! Get Up! We are on the downswing. A pendulum swung. The hour set in motion. Much to do. He comes. We are busy talking and hurrying about and we miss the arrival. He is waiting.

A triangle of brazen iron, shafted into white hot means. A quiver, then two. There is an awakening. Stirring. A rumble below. Warriors are sharpening their tools, their senses. Many will step down and perish. Many will step down and disappear. Rocked and thrown apart, split by poison arrows. They see not the sliver between them, but a great divide only in their minds. It must start in the mind then flow replete to the heart.

Hither and to, calls of incense start the flow. A wick is lit and a gap is gorged with the pumping covering of the crimson blood. Death turns to glory. Void turns to salt and honey. Bundled and carried through the flame. Feet forged with new souls. Toughened to withstand to stand with.

Holy holy holy!

Get Up! Cup bearers! Get Up and Arise!