Dust on my sandals. Incense in the air. The stones spoke. The Jerusalem Cross of Custodia Terrรฆ Sanctรฆโcut into marble, carved into iron, worn by zealots a thousand years deadโpressed down on my soul like a seal.
I walked where He bled.
Not metaphor. Not myth. God in flesh. Golgotha was real. His tomb was real. Empty.
I touched the cool stone of the Sepulchre. Tourists sang. Priests chanted. But something deeper stirred. A silence that spoke of judgment. And mercy.
I used to rage at the worldโits lies, its filth, its serpents in high towers. I named names. I shouted. I wanted them behind barsโglobalist snakes, corrupt politicians, muslim rapists paraded before justice, executed in the square.
But in this place, where He died not for the righteous but for the filthiest, I felt small.
My war was against flesh and blood. Ephesians had warned me. I didnโt listen.
The enemy isnโt out there in suits and slogans. Itโs in hearts. Mine too.
The true war is unseen. Not flesh. Spirit. Lies cloaked as light.
He didnโt come to fix Babylon. He came to save us from it.
And He will returnโnot to campaign, but to reign.
Until then, we wait. Watch. Walk like He walked.
Quiet. Clear-eyed. Cross-bearing.
[ํ๊ธ ๋ฒ์ญ์ ์ฌ๊ธฐ ์์ต๋๋ค.]
