Prophetic Word, given on 2025-03-11 around 9:00PM
Note:
Here I want to share a pretty cryptic word, given on day 11 in the 3rd month of the year 2025. It somehow refers to Hosea with his three children, though not specifically given any of their names, very much because it also addresses metaphorically other characters or other symbols. The word includes also other stuff, but the highlight is on these two.
And as always, please ask prayerfully that the Holy Spirit will guide you through this word and give you wisdom and understanding in all metaphors, figurative elements and parables.
Beginning of Prophecy:
The prostitute could not stand the prophet. Three children running around like chicks and don’t know where they belong to. The grass is wet, they pick here and there, trying to find food, something to eat, but the land they love to hide is not the soil that satisfies their needs, and hearts desire, so My people I have chosen.
Abandoned by their mother who still wears her dress of harlotry. Bring her home, gather the chicks sounds from the other side, but the voice of the man of faith drowns in the ocean of adulterous noises. Lips sing praises, but the tongue is twisted, a nation that is not My nation anymore, a people like the ones in Marah, yet without the prophet, and no wood around.
The willows are weeping from afar and the harps are rotting in their branches.
I have dressed you in beauty, but you stripped it off and took on your mothers garments. If Avraham would have seen, how far his seed has disappeared from the first love of creation, and it’s creator, rivers of tears would have flooded the desert, engraving canyons of pain. All the sand he would have given back to Me, and asked, to give it to someone else, someone who is able to bear the pain, seeing the joy of salvation run astray, straight into apostasy.
A time like never before is before you and it’s just at the very beginning. One of the children walks in darkness, has seen once a great light, but the rock in the heart covers the sight and cause the beauty of My glory to remain hidden.
Brown, green, blue, nations come and go, kingdoms rise and fall, but the prostitute keeps on going clinging to her new lover. My love she has forgotten, the prophet neglected, a man after My own heart she despises. Israel still seeks for a king like Shaul with a great strong outer appearance, but the one whom I have chosen, who tend My sheep, they mock. The prophet is not permitted to anoint Him as king. Pride has risen in their man-made sanctuaries, their voices come before all men and kings and princes, but I don’t hear them from far away.
My bride, arise, why do you not shout louder and more intense? Are you not sure and excited about your husband, the eternal bridegroom, whom you claim to love so much? I see all the world affairs, so why do you waste your time and stare at it? I tell you, everything is all right, Beseder and under My control. There is no need for you to focus on carnality. Moshe was not marveled or bewildered by all the things Pharaoh was doing – he looked at Me, the burning bush. He alone had enough faith that I will be able to deliver the children of Israel out of the hand of a deluded ruler.
Is there anyone out there who has still such faith? Will there be anyone left who has faith at all when I return? Will I find faith at all? Can you imagine what I would be able to do, if I could find one like Moshe? And how much more, if I could find ten or a hundred with such faith like Moshe and Avraham?
How much longer I will let the harlot play her games doesn’t depend on Me, but on you, My beloved. Your voice matters. It doesn’t matter for the world as they have declared already their own destruction. When the night turns to day and day to night, where will you hide with your darkened light and mind?
The fire, the fire, hot red as My anger, yet cold, compared to the wrath that will burn one day as it awaits to be poured out upon you, oh unrepentant nations. You can mount and light up as many candles as you want on the crown of your self anointed king and kings and princes, but playing with fire never did do any good for ignorant and careless toddlers.
Lists of names are waiting to be released, used like toilet paper. Smeared with excrements, high like mountains of wickedness, all blurred for you. But I see the list before it was written and make sure it will go to the place it belongs. Voluntarily the harlot gave away her children to unknown entities who sprinkle blood upon them and their own souls. It covers their eyes, so they can’t see the way, it covers their ears, so they can’t hear the truth that might set them free, and it covers their hearts, so they can’t touch life. Hearts sunk deep into the ocean of sin, where their soul will go down by the weight of the final millstone.
They will cry to their gods, but these gods will not hear anything because they can’t see, hear, speak and smell, nor is any of them, or even all of them united together able to save. The smell of their own rotten flesh shall remain forever in their nostrils as a reminder of innocence they ate.
My beloved, My children, stay away from the harlot and don’t play her games. Tables will turn, coins will roll down the drain but no one will pick them up.
The potter created you, and now the potter separates the holy from the profane vessels. The dragon shall no longer be able to reach up to the shelf where holiness resides, where I will place My chosen ones. The eagle and the vulture shall not be able to fly near to steal them nor anything that’s theirs. The fox shall not be able to get out of his den anymore. The bear shall forget, it’s summer, and see the sweet honey from the rock on the shelves dressed in winter clothes and will not touch it. The tongue of the snake shall become entangled with her fangs. The lion cub shall lose his voice as the great lion commands. Sheep and goats are being separated and soon be written down in two different books, yes, soon it will be finished. The cock weeps bitterly because the denials are piling up to heaven, and no one will comfort him. The colt drinks coffee, being morphed like a butterfly back into the cocoon, standing idle, waiting, no one seem to care about the burden of his Master anymore. The dove picks up the broken pieces from the feeding show of time, times of ancient sacrifices on the horizon. The dog is on his way back to his vomit as he has forgotten how to watch. Another Identity will take over. The two daggers will lose their razor edge, but sharpen it’s teeth.
The bull goes into rodeo mode, not caring of the woman at his back and makes her dizzy, the little fly in his ear cries to move on and on. He’s running back and forth, crushing all the barriers, yet in deep insanity shall find no rest. Like Avshalom the woman will be left hanging on a tree between heaven and hell. But instead to ask the gardener with the wooden ladder she cries to the harlot to deliver her from the living tree. She pays the price, the bull is gone, the harlot is not merciful. Without strength in desolation she cooperates with Jezebel in hope to gain back evil power.
Horses casting lots to decide the route. Break the seals, break the seals, a fanfare from the east, in midst a roaring storm from the west.
Listen to the sound of the chariots. In their fire like the bush, they will bring a change and the wings of “their” horses clear the ruined passage. With the rising of the beast My bride shall be elevated and soar to higher grounds. Long I have been waiting, not much longer for the children of the harlot to come back to the word. When the word, the one that’s Mine, the one that’s Me will start to roll, everyone inside the drum will run and cry in desperation as soon the word gains momentum.
When you hear the sound of the reaper, stand up in faith, so you will not be chopped off with the same sickles who cut the weeds and pile them for the fire. But stand and wait for those who pick you up and bind you with the sheaves. Not on the first nor on the second day, but on the third day I will do it for your wounds be healed. There, the harvester will carry you into the barn, whether you carry 30, 60 or 100-fold fruit, or if you doubled, tripled or multiplied your talents; not one single grain shall drop to the ground and get lost, they are all counted into the basket of righteousness – but woe to those who hid their talent in the soil; they will be counted in the basket which I never knew.
An icy breeze blows through the land where it plunge down to the hearts of men. Who will hear, who will go for Me? Whom can I send to gather from the last corners of the earth before the harlot burns it all down?
End of Prophecy
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