I am NOT mocking TRUMP, I posted who IS MOCKING him so he knows
Declaring a New Independence — James O’Brien
Operation Disclosure | By James O’Brien, Contributor June 10, 2020 In the 2016 Presidential Election, Donald J. Trump entered the…
Operation Disclosure | By James O’Brien, Contributor
June 10, 2020
In the 2016 Presidential Election, Donald J. Trump entered the Casino Royale- the international bloodsport coliseum of world politics- and he wagered everything to his name. He wagered everything he and his family had built over decades in multiple industries, pushing his chips all-in on one colossal bet for the destiny of the United States.
What could compel a man to wager not only his own great fortune, but the fate of his entire family, risking a terrible demise should he come a cropper with this titanic bet? Did you think his political enemies would have let him walk out of the Casino with his life if his wager had fallen short? Not a chance. He would have been made an example of, so that no one would ever try this again. In times of old, he would have been beheaded, like William Wallace, his skull spiked on London bridge and his severed limbs sent to the four corners of England.
It should be noted that Trump’s matrilineal bloodline is Scottish, through his mother Mary Anne MacLeod. It should also be noted that the very bible he was sworn in on at the 2017 inauguration, was a bible from a revival in Scotland on the Isle of Lewis, known as the Hebrides Revival. But that is a story for another time.
The point is that Donald Trump has the absolute courage of his convictions. While his opponents mock him endlessly, pointing out his both real and invented personal foibles on a 24-7 news-propaganda cycle, he was the one willing to walk through the front door of the Casino Royale and lay down the biggest bet anyone could ever place. And he did it without wavering or trembling, knowing that he might not ever rest again in this life until his quest was completed or death took him, whichever came first.
When one wagers one’s “life, fortune and sacred honor,” the whole of the Universe watches. What could compel someone to trade in an established good life, a life of literal fame and fortune, for the opportunity to be crushed into powder by an ignominious, almost unfathomably well-entrenched enemy?
The answer lies in another moment of history, in the birth of a nation, whose founding document was a Declaration of Independence over Tyranny, and a reliance on Divine Providence to guide it on the way to an incredible, impossible victory.
The expressions on the faces of the signers of the Declaration, knowing they risked the death of not just themselves but their wives and children, was reported as “undaunted resolution.”
“We must hang together,” Franklin said, “or surely we will hang separately.”
But the signers of the Declaration did not enter that room with such undaunted resolution. In fact, they had been discussing all day what to do, knowing there would be no turning back once their names were on that parchment. However, they were not alone in that room.
An unknown man, it was noted, arose and gave an electrifying speech. The room was locked and this person had no traditional means of appearing before them. And yet there he was, giving one of the most extraordinary oratories in history at a moment when the courage of the founding fathers was wavering.
Many believe this man was Saint Germain, also known as the Wonderman of Europe, an enlightened figure who lived many years beyond a normal human lifespan and had performed notable works of both alchemy and scientific invention. It was said that at the moment of his ascension he chose to return to earth in a body instead of moving into the realms of spirit. His aim was to help free humanity from its historical prison, and thus, at this most critical juncture, when the fate of a nation and a people hung in the balance, he had a means to be there in that room, via what might be termed bio-location.
And these are the words he spoke to the assembly:
Sign that document!
Gibbet? They may stretch our necks on all the gibbets in the land–they may turn every rock into a scaffold–every tree into a gallows, every home into a grave, and yet the words on that Parchment can never die! They may pour our blood on a thousand scaffolds, and yet from every drop that dyes the axe, or drips on the sawdust of the block, a new martyr to Freedom will spring into birth!
The British King may blot out the Stars of God from His sky, but he cannot blot out His words written on the Parchment there! The works of God may perish – His Word, never!
These words will go forth to the world when our bones are dust. To the slave in the mines they will speak – hope – to the mechanic in his workshop–freedom–to the coward-kings these words will speak, but not in tones of flattery. No, no! They will speak like the flaming syllables on Belshazzar’s wall–
THE DAYS OF YOUR PRIDE AND GLORY ARE NUMBERED! THE DAYS OF JUDGMENT AND REVOLUTION DRAW NEAR!
Yes, that Parchment will speak to the Kings in a language sad and terrible as the Trump of the Archangel. You have trampled on mankind long enough. At last the voice of human woe has pierced the ear of God, and called His Judgment down! You have waded onto thrones over seas of blood – you have trampled on to power over the necks of millions – you have turned the poor man’s sweat and blood into robes for your delicate forms, into crowns for your anointed brows.
Now Kings – now purpled Hangmen of the world – for you come the days of axes and gibbets and scaffolds – for you the wrath of man – for you the lightnings of God!–
Look! How the light of your palaces on fire flashes up into the midnight sky!
Now Purpled Hangmen of the world–turn and beg for mercy!
Where will you find it?
Not from God, for you have blasphemed His laws!
Not from the People, for you stand baptized in their blood!
Here you turn, and lo! a gibbet!
There–and a scaffold looks you in the face.
All around you–death–and nowhere pity!
Now executioners of the human race, kneel down, yes, kneel down upon the sawdust of the scaffold–lay your perfumed heads upon the block–bless the axe as it falls–the axe that you sharpened for the poor man’s neck!
Such is the message of that Declaration to Man, to the Kings of the world! And shall we falter now? And shall we start back appalled when our feet press the very threshold of Freedom? Do I see quailing faces around me, when our wives have been butchered–when the hearthstones of our land are red with the blood of little children?
What are these shrinking hearts and faltering voices here, when the very Dead of our battlefields arise, and call upon us to sign that Parchment, or be accursed forever?
Sign! If the next moment the gibbet’s rope is round your neck! Sign! If the next moment this hall rings with the echo of the falling axe! Sign! By all your hopes in life or death, as husbands–as fathers–as men–sign your names to the Parchment or be accursed forever!
Sign–and not only for yourselves, but for all ages. For that Parchment will be the Text-book of Freedom–the Bible of the Rights of Man forever!
Sign–for that declaration will go forth to American hearts forever, and speak to those hearts like the voice of God! And its work will not be done, until throughout this wide Continent not a single inch of ground owns the sway of a British King!
Nay, do not start and whisper with surprise! It is a truth, your own hearts witness it, God proclaims it. This Continent is the property of a free people, and their property alone. God, I say, proclaims it!
Look at this strange history of a band of exiles and outcasts, suddenly transformed into a people–look at this wonderful Exodus of the oppressed of the Old World into the New, where they came, weak in arms but mighty in Godlike faith–nay, look at this history of your Bunker Hill–your Lexington–where a band of plain farmers mocked and trampled down the panoply of British arms, and then tell me, if you can, that God has not given America to the free?
It is not given to our poor human intellect to climb the skies, to pierce the councils of the Almighty One. But methinks I stand among the awful clouds which veil the brightness of Jehovah’s throne. Methinks I see the Recording Angel–pale as an angel is pale, weeping as an angel can weep–come trembling up to that Throne, and speak his dread message–
Father! The old world is baptized in blood! Father, it is drenched with the blood of millions, butchered in war, in persecution, in slow and grinding oppression! Father–look, with one glance of Thine Eternal eye, look over Europe, Asia, Africa, and behold evermore, that terrible sight, man trodden down beneath the oppressor’s feet–nations lost in blood–Murder and Superstition walking hand in hand over the graves of their victims, and not a single voice to whisper, “Hope to Man!”
He stands there, the Angel, his hands trembling with the black record of human guilt. But hark! The voice of Jehovah speaks out from the awful cloud–’Let there be light again. Let there be a New World. Tell my people–the poor–the trodden down millions, to go out from the Old World. Tell them to go out from wrong, oppression and blood–tell them to go out from this Old World–to build my altar in the New!’
As God lives, my friends, I believe that to be his voice! Yes, were my soul trembling on the wing for Eternity, were this hand freezing in death, were this voice choking with the last struggle, I would still, with the last impulse of that soul, with the last wave of that hand, with the last gasp of that voice, implore you to remember this truth – God has given America to the free!
Yes, as I sank down into the gloomy shadows of the grave, with my last gasp, I would beg you to sign that Parchment, in the name of the God, who made the Saviour who redeemed you – in the name of the millions whose very breath is now hushed in intense expectation, as they look up to you for the awful words – You are free!
And now the Parchment is signed; and now let word go forth to the People in the streets–to the homes of America–to the camp of Mister Washington, and the Palace of George the Idiot-King–let word go out to all the earth–
And, old man in the steeple, now bare your arm, and grasp the Iron Tongue, and let the bell speak out the great truth:
FIFTY-SIX TRADERS, LAWYERS, FARMERS AND MECHANICS HAVE THIS DAY SHOOK THE SHACKLES OF THE WORLD!
Hark! Hark to the toll of that Bell!
Is there not a deep poetry in that sound, a poetry more sublime than Shakespeare or Milton?
Is there not a music in the sound that reminds you of those awful tones which broke from angel-lips, when news of the child Jesus burst on the shepherds of Bethlehem?
For that Bell now speaks out to the world, that–
GOD HAS GIVEN THE AMERICAN CONTINENT TO THE FREE–THE TOILING MILLIONS OF THE HUMAN RACE–AS THE LAST ALTAR OF THE RIGHTS OF MAN ON THE GLOBE–THE HOME OF THE OPPRESSED, FOREVERMORE!”
These are the stakes that Donald Trump and the Trump Alliance are fighting for. In this bet, nothing less than everything must be wagered. Victory is a certainty because the hand of Divine Providence has guided these matters. But never forget it took individual hands to sign that document and an individual to walk through the doors of the Casino Royale and place that all-in bet.
Say what you will about Donald Trump and his family, but they have guts galore and the courage of their convictions. And such patriotic courage has never been more necessary.
The Trump Alliance is All-In. Where we go one, we go all. And we’re going all the way.