THE RED HORSE LIE

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A crack—

the second seal splits,

and the red horse bolts—

blade unsheathed, peace undone.

 

But the fire trailing its hooves?

A myth, not a mandate.

 

Sheol sighs a grave’s hush—

cold, silent.

Hades holds shadows—

not screams.

Gehenna smolders with city ash—

not souls.

The Abyss cages rebels—

not the righteous.

 

Scripture’s fire purifies gold—

burns chaff, tests deeds,

but never roasts a soul.

 

So where did the inferno spark?

Not from heaven’s hand,

but man’s quill.

 

Jerome’s ink blurred Sheol to infernus—

a mistranslated spark.

Dante fanned the flames—

his Inferno painting pain in crimson strokes.

Gregory the Great,

Luther’s dread,

Calvin’s doom,

King James’s gloss—

each a link in the chain of fear,

a man-made pyre,

not a divine decree.

 

The lake of fire?

Not a furnace for the damned—

but death’s grave,

swallowing the end itself.

 

The cross broke sin’s curse—

no hellfire required.

 

SEAL 2 shatters the lie:

• Hell’s not a sentence—a tale spun from human fear.

• God’s fire refines; it doesn’t burn.

 

Now’s the hour.

Break the seal—

let the red horse ride empty,

until even it learns

to be still.