I see a grandmother on her front porching knitting. It’s Betsy Ross. She sits in the rubble of America. There are ashes and clutter and debris from a broken country.
She knits and knits, trying to repair the flag of a once-proud country.
Tears flow from her eyes.
Smoke billows across the countryside.
I see and eagle with tar on its wings. It’s feathers are thick with goo.
The sun is indeed dark, and the moon has gone red.
People are only concerned for themselves. Anarchy is everywhere.
I see the LORD high upon a hill yelling through a megaphone:
“Prophesy to the bones!”
“Prophesy to the breath!”
“Speak life!”
The release of the prophetic in America is only increasing for there is death and destruction about.
But, we bring life. Life!
Let us proclaim the Good News and breathe life back into a dying nation.