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2021 Apr 07 21:58:00
Being Scots, I know the Irish better than most. Scots and Irish are the same Sub-Race of White Man: Celtic Gaels. However, there are two types of Irish: Decent Irish and whiny Victim Irish that are as bad as any Nigger or Jew. They'll murder you then bitch  they are "Victims of English tyranny."
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It's not the IRA I support, but rather some of their tactics. Irish women and Irish music I definitely support. ;D
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CREATIVITY IS AN ENEMY OF THE IRA.
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Testing Odysee.com

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Band from Serbia

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PM Joe Free in 23
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2021 Mar 13 21:50:10
NER audiobook is still in operation. I've been listening to book I:

https://creativityalliance.com/23/ca-tv_player_ner1.html
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RaHoWa! All my love and respect to my fellow Creators, Br. Zachary Barfield         
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It's Great to be White. Website runs great Rev. ;D
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Done some CODING to get this site running faster. Enjoy. RaHoWa!
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Happy Founding Day to my Brothers and Sisters,  RaHoWa!!!
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Happy Klassen Day! 8)
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Today we celebrate the birth of one of the greatest White men who has ever lived, if not the greatest. Our founder Ben Klassen. RaHoWa!!!
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HistoryReviewed.com HistoryReviewed.best and White-Shop.biz are part of a single address collecting scam. Avoid them all.
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To my Brothers and Sisters from WhiteNations.com. Welcome  to the Church of Creativity and the Creativity Alliance. RaHoWa!
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2021 Jan 31 09:04:08
P.M. Joe was the first in his prison to be given the Chink Vaccine.

And Thank You to Sister G. for a donation.
https://creativityalliance.com/forum/news-from-the-gulags/pm-joe-esposito-sends-his-thanks-for-donations
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Racial Greetings brothers. I wanted to send a message to say happy South Victory Day. I hope this finds you all in good health and spirits and that  the swine haven't held the message for too long. Creatively, Br. Dustin Fletcher.

#17222545 Snake River C.I., Oregon.
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Happy New Year and Racial Greetings to all my racial family, from Br. Dustin Fletcher. 23/23

#17222545 Snake River C.I., Oregon.
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2020 Nov 27 00:49:23
Nature's Eternal Religion by Ben Klassen

$45 from our friends at the National Alliance:
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2020 Nov 24 10:14:17
If you didn't know it before, understand it now: WE ARE AT WAR FOR THE SALVATION OF THE WHITE RACE. https://creativityalliance.com/forum/american-news/democrat-anti-white-supremacy-bill-blocked-by-senate-republicans/msg35313/#msg35313
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N.A. Radio

Author Topic: Voice Of Our Ancestors

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Voice Of Our Ancestors
« on: 23 July 2013 at 02:01 »
   Dr. William L. Pierce: "A more concise study of the difference between the Christian world view and ours is given in Wulf Sörensen’s The Voice of Our Ancestors, which was reprinted in National Vanguard No.107."---

VOICE OF OUR ANCESTORS

by WULF SÖRENSEN

There they hang on the wall, one hundred ninety-six little plaques in  oval, gilded frames. And there are still far fewer than there ought to  have been. All the frames in the upper rows show only a name with a  couple of dates on white paper. But in the lower rows they become alive.  The portraits begin about the time of the Thirty Years War. They are  fine miniatures, carefully painted with a pointed brush on ivory, which  has long since yellowed. One cannot but think of the difficulty the  artist must have had in capturing those stern, proud features with his  soft, marten-hair brush. All of the white ruffled collars, the lace, the puffed sleeves and on the "gentlemen," the jabots have a frivolous effect on these portraits dating from the beginning of the eighteenth century. "Ladies"? "Gentlemen"? No, indeed! In spite of the velvet and silk there is not a "lady" nor a "gentleman" among them.

They are all women and men - and that says far more than the "gentleman"  of today. For they, there on the wall, living again in their portraits - were free! This is what we have come to, that we must banish our ancestors to pictures or vital statistics on the wall in order to give them a faint presence in our dim memories. Ancestors?

People today do not even know the birth dates and death dates of their  own parents. Of course, they are written down somewhere. It is a wonder  if one knows even a little about his grandfather, not to mention his great-grandfather. As for great-great-grandfather, one does not think about him at all. as if he had never existed.

Earlier - much earlier - things were different. That was before words  had become but mere merchandise, used to concoct lies, when a man still  lived by his word; then it was not necessary to write down and record  one's ancestors.

That was a time when the living flow of blood from son to father, from  father to grandfather and great-grandfather and great-great-grandfather  still had not been choked off. It had not yet sunk, as it has today, so  deep beneath all of the alien values within mind and soul, that most of  us can no longer hear its rustle, even in the stillest hour. Once the  whole past dwelt in the hearts of the living. And from this past the  present and the future grew upward like the strong limbs of a healthy  tree.

And today? They laugh at the fables of our Folk, They do not even  understand them. Nevertheless, that which remains with us from the "Once  upon a time" of our fables, serves as a reminder, a finger showing us  the way back into the millennia of our great past. You believe that we  have no use for what is past and gone? Nonsense! The man in whose breast  the "Once upon a time" of his race is no longer awake - has no future  which truly belongs to him. How timely would be the appearance of a man  who would teach us again the meaning of our fables, and show us that our  struggle for the freedom of the earth which has borne us was, also, the struggle of our ancestors a hundred and a thousand years ago!

Did you know that when you read about Snow White and the Wicked Queen  who came over the mountains, that those mountains she had to cross each time she came to kill Snow White were the Alps, and that the Queen came from Rome, the deadly enemy of everything Nordic? Think about the Queen's Daily query: "Mirror, mirror on the wall, Who is the fairest of them all?" When you think of this saying think about Rome, which could not rest until everything Nordic, bright and joyful was exterminated, and only darkness remained - dark like the Wicked queen in the fairy tale, so that she could be the fairest in all the land, after everything white was dead. That which came over the southern mountains to us tolerated no peers.

Everything had to kneel before it and kiss its feet. When the queen came  over the Alps the first time, dressed as a peddler from a distant land,  she offered Snow White a bewitched corset - bewitched because it was  alien. Then she pulled the laces so tight that Snow White fainted and  fell. The emissaries of Rome bound the Nordic spirit in the suffocating  bonds of alien concepts and deceitful words. But the queen's ruinous  plan did not succeed, The dwarves - the good spirits of the Folk - came  and freed Snow White. The Frisians crushed the Roman emissaries who  tried to break the strength of our people with their doctrines of misery  and servitude, For nearly a thousand years the Nordic tribes struggled  against the poison from Sinai, which gradually fouled their blood. And  when the vain queen again asked her mirror, the answer was: "... but  Snow White, over the seven mountains with the seven dwarves is a  thousand times fairer than you." Driven by her restless jealousy, the  queen came over the snowy wall of the Alps with a new deception. She  offered Snow White a magnificent glittering comb, the most exotic thing  she had ever seen.

The "Holy Roman Empire" diverted the Nordic will-of-action away from its natural course; one after another, Nordic leaders have gone off to Rome and the consequence has been turmoil and Roman law in our land, which has enchained our Nordic pride. It began with Karl, the eternally cursed Frank, murderer of Saxons. From Aller to Verdun, the blood of the most noble or our people is on his hands. In recognition for his deeds, the Roman priests bestowed upon Karl the title of "The Great."Silent forever  are the lips of our Folk who named this wretched Frank, "Karl the Saxon  slayer"!

Despite this, the Nordic spirit remained unbroken; the Wicked queen  still was not the fairest in the land. And so, for a third visit she  came and presented Snow White with a rosy-cheeked, but poisoned apple.  The first bite stuck in Snow White's throat and caused her to faint as  if dead. This apple symbolized the rejection of our own nature, the  abandonment Of tribal ways. "As if dead," the fairy tale says,  acknowledges the enormous strength which slumbers in our people,  recognizing that one day will come the great hour, when that strength  will mightily throw off the chains of Sinai. Has it yet come, this long  awaited hour? "Snow White" is but one of the hundreds and hundreds of  age-old Nordic tales which remind us, with as many different images, of  the difficulties, the oppression and the deep wisdom of our ancestors.

And as Rome cracked its whip over our land, mercilessly annihilating  every genuine manifestation of our own nature, our wise forebears wove  into these tales, using colorful symbols and allegory, a legacy of our  heritage. But Rome's influence extended over our tales and sagas,  falsifying them, giving them new meaning and made advantageous to Roman  domination. Thus, it was that our people no longer could understand the  voice of our ancestors, that we went astray these many centuries,  becoming more and more alienated from our own ways and enslaved to Rome,  and thus to Judah.

Only he who bears his own soul, living and burning in his breast, is an individual - a master. And he who abandons his own kind is a slave. The key to freedom lies within us! Now we must hearken again to the voice of  our ancestors and protect our essence from alien influences, protect that which wants to grow out of our own souls. Stronger than any army is  the man who wields the power which resides within him!

Reflectively, i look over the long rows of my ancestors. The last  members reach so far back that hardly more than a name and a date on a  sheet of paper remain. Yet their voices come alive in my blood, because  their blood is my blood.I think of how the French-speaking monks came  from Switzerland to convert our forefathers, the Goths and the Vandals.  Even their deadly enemies, the Romans said: "Where the Goths are, there virtue rules. And where the Vandals are, there even the Romans become chaste." And to such men the commandments from Sinai were offered as guiding lights for their lives! Can one understand why these men laughed when they heard those commandments, which demanded that they not commit  acts they never would have dreamed of committing?

Can one understand that they raised their swords in wrath when the monks  told them that they were "born in sin" - these best of the Goths, whose  very name means "The Good Ones"? Cannot one understand the unspeakable contempt with which these noble men regarded those who promised them a reward in heaven for abstaining from doing things which, according to their own nature, were beneath the dignity even of animals?

To such men the commandments were brought; men infinitely superior in human dignity and morality than the monks who brought them. For countless generations they had lived far above the moral plateau on which the commandments from Sinai then operated. Thousands of years before the time of the "Christ" the monks claimed to represent, our ancestors had sown the seeds of culture and civilization throughout the world on their fruitful voyages and wanderings.

When I contemplate the small portraits and see in their firmly composed  faces the expressions of my ancestors, which compel no more notice of  these times, it seems as if we have descended from a high, high ladder -  a ladder which we must yet again climb. Nowadays, it is seldom that we can even appear to be like they were. They were on intimate terms with Allfather and did not need to call on halo-wearing intermediaries when they wished to speak to him. And even then, they did not know how to beg; they were too strong, too proud and too healthy for supplication. Blessings prayed for are not true blessings!

They wanted nothing of gifts; either they already had everything they  wanted or, if they lacked something, they got it for themselves. Their  creed was a saying as brief as a wink and as clear and deep as a  mountain stream: "DO RIGHT AND FEAR NO ONE!" As for their religion,  there was no necessity to put it into words, which suited a people who  were naturally frugal with their words anyway. They carried their  spiritual consciousness deep within their souls; it served them like a  compass needle which always steers a ship on its proper course.

Was that not a better religion than one which must be written down in a  thick book, lest it be forgotten - and which one cannot properly  understand until a priest comes and interprets what is written there?  And even then, an act of faith is required to believe that this  intricate interpretation is correct. In their day, faith grew from the  blood and it was knowledge. Today it must be learned, for it is an alien  faith, unable to strike roots in our blood. It is dogma and doctrine  which none can know and which most of us silently renounce, because it  is contrary to nature and reason. Tell me - have we become better since  taking on this new religion? A great wordless sorrow resides in the  breast of most of us, a boundless sense of homelessness, because the way  of our ancestors lives on eternally in our Nordic blood like a dream.  We want, once again, to be free of sin - like our ancestors were.

We are tired of being humble and small and weak and all the other things  demanded of us by a god who despises his own creations and looks on the  world as a den of corruption. We want to be proud again, and great and  strong, and to do things for ourselves! How different are those faces  there on the wall from the faces of today! Only if one looks very  closely does one still find a trace of that clarity of the features in  the present generation. What lived so dominantly in our ancestors that  it showed in their faces has disappeared back into our blood to dream.  That is why faces so often deceive us today. Many a person whose hair  color and eye color come from the south, still have the greatest part of  their blood from Nordic fathers. And many who appear forgotten by the  last two thousand years bear their bright hair and grey or blue eyes  only as a deceptive mask, for their blood bears no trace of their  fathers from the Northland. The one has only the appearance of the alien  and retains his Nordic blood. The other has taken the blood of the  alien and retains his Nordic face as an illusory mask.

Which is better? Today, one must look into a person's eyes and see  whether or not they are still firm, shining and keen. The soul is  illuminated through the eyes and it does not deceive. There were many a  rebel among those there on the wall, and men who left home; many had  refused to bend to those with power. They could not go crooked, these  fellows. They preferred poverty abroad over submission at home. But they  did not stay poor for long. Those who went abroad followed the restless  stream of their blood, which gave them no rest until they had found  themselves; rejecting that which was foreign to them and flowing into  the bloodstream of their fathers, and so became conscious links in the chain of ancestors, closing the great kindred circle. When one of these came home again - and they all came home - he had become a calm, complete man. It is hard to describe this quality of completeness. If others are babbling in confusion, and such a man utters softly only a couple of words, then all the others will understand and become quiet and attentive. And such a man does not ask questions; others ask him! Look at their eyes; just as they mastered life, so they stood on intimate terms with death. To them death was life's trusted companion. Those same eyes show up among them even in the most recent generations.

There is one of them; Erik was his name and he fell at Kemmel. The steel helmet on his head seems to be a part of him. His mouth is a hard, straight line. But in his twenty-year-old eyes twinkles a silent laugh. And with this laugh, foreign to his mouth, and a wink, saluting with his  fist against his breast, beckoning as he steps past, Erik greeted death. I cannot imagine this Erik, with bent knee and plaintive voice, begging some god up in the clouds for mercy and help.This is the way I picture him: leaping up from a crouch and with a fierce shout, plunging his great sword into a charging enemy - then, still in the same leap, being struck by an arrow and collapsing back to the ground with his final thought, "I gave my best for Germany!" Erik seized the bitter cup with a proud laugh and drank it down in a single draught without a grimace. And he likely rapped the cup with a fingernail, so that all could hear it was empty. He did not pray, "Father, let this cup pass from me." He reached out and seized it for it himself, for he knew... everything necessary is good! Beneath Erik's portrait is his motto, written in his own firm, clear hand: "Let a man be noble, benevolent, loyal and good."

Does that not say far more than those commandments Moses had issued to  the depraved rabble in the desert, in order to make that horde grasp the  rudiments of humanity? The Commandments were appropriate for that  Hebraic bunch. Even the Egyptians had driven them out of their lands.  Even as slaves the Hebrews were too wicked and infected Egyptian life.  The Hebrews - the chosen people of god! It is ludicrous that anyone take  it seriously. A commandment presupposes a transgression. One can  recognize from the mere necessity for such commandments (which demand  nothing more than the barest behavior required to claim the designation  "human beings") to what kind of creatures they had been given creatures  truly entitled to claim no more than a resemblance to human beings. To  the men of the North these commandments were a slander, an unforgivable  insult to their sacred blood. So, there rose out of the burning  indignation of the Nordic blood a Wittekind, who returned again and  again to lead his people into battle against the doctrines from Sinai.  For these teachings are a deadly poison to our blood. You ask - when  will Wittekind return no more? Hearken: Wittekind will die only with the last Northman! [Wittekind was Saxon Chief who lead resistance against Charlemagne, King of the Holy Roman Empire, who forced Christianity on the German people. Wittekind was symbolic of Northern Paganism and all out resistance against domination.] So long as a single Aryan lives, Wittekind is alive and the world is not safe from him! Seventy million Aryans on this glorious earth are more than enough for anything that comes from Sinai.

The last remnant who are still pure will still be poised when swords  resound on shields and the bugles sound for the last, great battle of  this wretched millennium. He who slumbers still, whose blood is dull and  sour, no glory for him! He will be thoughtlessly trampled underfoot by  the valiant who rush into battle down every street of Aryan homelands.  An ancient custom among our kind has remained alive even to the present  day in most parts of our Northland. There was a time when it seemed that  this practice, handed down to us from our forefathers, would die out.  But it has been revived - and the time is at hand when all our great and  beautiful people will again recognize the significance of this custom  and be made sound by it. Our ancestors gave to each child a powerful  name, full of joy and vital energy.

Actually, they only lent him this name. And it became a shining hope for  the child, far ahead of him on his life's course.The child bore this  name in his soul like his most precious treasure, for it was to him both  a goal and a sacred responsibility. This name strengthened the child's  soul as he developed into a conscious, mature individual. When the child  had become a youth, the elders of the kindred gathered for a  celebration, at which they decided whether or not the developed  character of the young man suited the name which had been given to him.  If the man and the name were found to be in harmony, then his name was  given to him for life. Otherwise, the young man chose a suitable name  for himself one which characterized his nature. So it came to be that  our ancestors were like their names and their names like them. And so  their name carried weight like a rune-carved sword, like their word and a  handshake, like yea and nay. In Christian times our ancestors were  compelled by the new law from abroad to adopt still another name; it was  written down in the church register, primarily for the benefit of the  census taker. The authorities were obliged to write the living heathen  name of a man beside his characterless Christian name in his register,  lest it become nothing but a list of phantoms. In those times the most  upright men and the proudest women sprung forth from our race. I step  closer to the rows of pictures and read the names.

The oldest are: Helge, Fromund, Meinrad, Markward, Ran, Waltari, Eigel,  Asmus, Bjoern. Peculiar names, are they not? They are names born from  the great language of our people. There is nothing foreign in them, no  spurious sound. They ring true to the ear. These names taste of the  salty sea, of the heavy, fruitful earth, of air and sunshine - and of  the homeland. Do you notice that? A few will notice - but all too few. Their own language has become foreign to them and has nothing more to say to them. After these first rows our ancestors began to name their sons Gottlieb, Christian, Fürchgott, Leberecht, Christoph (which mean: God-lover, Christ- worshipper. God-fearer, Righteous-liver, Christ-carrier) ... Still later came the names Paulus, Johannes, Petrus, Christophorus, Korbinianus, Stephanus, Karolus. By those times our forefathers had no other names.

Do you feel how something has been broken in these men, how they have  become alienated from their own nature? Do you feel how steeply the  ladder descends? A destiny is locked up in the transformation of these  names. It is not the destiny of an individual or of a clan, but of a  whole people - our Folk. But then something strange happened. Those who  had been named Karolus and Paulus by their fathers suddenly regarded  these names as annoying, alien, unsuitable, ridiculous. And now comes  the generation that went into the Great War. The names with little iron  crosses behind the dates on which they fell - a mere 20 or even fewer  years from their birth dates, read: Jochen, Dieter, Asmus, Erwin,  Walter. Roland, Georg... These are the names we still have today. And  what are the names of our youngest, those who carry their names into the  third millennium after the time of Nordic self-forgiveness? Gerhardt,  Hartmut, Deitrich, Ingo, Dagwin, Guenther, Hellmut, Gernot, Dagmar,  Ingeborg, Helga...Has the Great War done this? The names tell the story.  A few men wear priestly garments. But the painter has given us a clue.  And whoever is able to find this clue can see how little or how much the  strong heart of the man is darkened by the shadow of the black robes he  wears. The paintings are all bust portraits, nevertheless in one of  them the artist shows a hand. It is a strong, sinewy hand, of the sort  which could steer a ship through a storm. The black book in his hand  looks like a frivolous toy. Such a hand does not bless an enemy; it  crushes him.

His name is Frith. That is a strange name for a priest. "Frith" means  -peace robber." Another portrait shows a man with grey, windswept hair.  He has a hawkish nose and in his eyes one perceives unlimited vision.  Did Ran really bow his head in remorse, repentance and humility? Did he  really despise the world and place his confidence in a power other than  his own? I know why fate ordained that these men must wear the black  robes; had it not been for them, there would be far fewer heathens in  the North today; without them there would be many more who would have  exchanged their own image of God for an alien one and would have grown  weary of their own strength and the world; and many more would have been  seduced by the alien doctrine into becoming its slaves and forgetting  their own blood.

They are true saints, for they have preserved their healthy inner  selves. despite the priests cassocks. They fought the enemy with his own  weapon. People called them "HEATHENS". A few were so proud of this  title that they incorporated it into their names, as one might don a  precious jewel. For the heathen is one who remains true to himself and  his kind, whose blood flows pure in his veins. And this pure blood  regards the world with neither the hateful sneer of Sinai or the weak  knees of Nazareth. It bears divinity, pure, clear and beautiful in its  red stream, so long as the race endures. None of these men has ever  sought God. One does not seek that which dwells in one's own soul. None  of these men has ever been torn with doubt about the divine. Only he who  betrays the divinity in himself and offers his soul to an alien god  knows such doubt. Doubt is eternal where there is the eternal alien, and  thereby the eternal unknown. The Christian is an eternal doubter. Can  any man be loyal, who is disloyal to himself? Can any man be great, who  is consumed with a longing to return to dust? Can any man be strong, who loves weakness? Can any man be proud, who wanders along in humility? Can any man be pure, who regards himself born in sin? Can any man be happy in this world, who despises the world? And can any man bear the Creator in his soul, who despises divine Creation? What a strange god you Christians have, who created you upright, but who commands you to crawl to him on your knees! We heathens do not beg to our Creator; it would be an insult to the divinity in our souls. Nor do we heathens come to the Creator to complain. We do not proclaim our failures to the world and least of all not to the Creator. We seek to overcome our faults and to grow. Our way is not complaining, but anger - and first of all anger against ourselves. Nor do we repent, we heathens, because we cannot be cowardly; we have the courage to stand by our deeds. Why have  you Christians made the name "Heathen" an insult? You should not peddle  your pettiness in the streets, for it permits people to see that the  love you are commanded to display is bound up with hate, and that the  forgiveness your religion requires of you is burdened with your desire  for vengeance. Only the envious stoop to insults. We see your envy and  are ashamed for you, since many of you are still brothers of our blood.  There was a time when it was a disgrace to be a Christian. But then you  began to conquer the masses and so you were able to turn the tables and  make virtue a disgrace. Then you labeled us the "strange" ones and  called us heathens. We have remained "strange", despite your insults. We  will never be a mass or a herd. Do you know that there are, also, many  among you who are "strange" as we are? Why do you not throw away the  beggar's rags which cover the noble garments of your manhood? Are you  ashamed to be "strange"? Afraid to be called heathens? When you  Christians have finished burying your god in the sky - come to us; we  heathens will again show you the Creator. And do not think we have  settled accounts with you Christians. We weigh silently - but we do not  weigh with false weights.

We do not deceive the God in us, since we do not deceive ourselves. And  as we have weighed justly, so have we calculated, so we would be  reckoned with justly by God for our souls. You see, we do not repent,  since we have nothing to repent. Our value lacks nothing. We retained  and preserved our whole worth And now you weigh! And when you have  weighed, calculated and evaluated, ask your envious spirit how much you  have lost. He who has lost nothing of his worth is without envy - and  without hatred for us heathens.

The petty man hates whatever is superior to him, while the great man  admires it. The petty man pities whatever is beneath him, while the  great man scorns it, if it merits his scorn, or he helps it up. There in  his cradle lies my son, reaching, reaching gleefully toward his  ancestors' portraits on the wall. This tiny, laughing bundle of life is  the next step of the future of my race. I was the last step. He is the  next. And behind me I see the path of my race passing back through the  distant millennia until it is dimmed by the mist of time - for the  generations which came before the earliest on the wall are, also, real.  My race's entire path through time i do not know - but, i do know that i  live and that i am only a link in the chain in which no link must fail,  so long as my people live. Otherwise, I never would have been.

For generations a parchment-bound book has been passed down through our  family i open it and inscribe a yellowed page for my son: "Your life is  not of this day and not of tomorrow. It is of the thousand years which  came before you and the thousand years to come after you. During the  thousand years before you, your blood was purely preserved, so that you  would be who you are. Now you must preserve your blood, so that all of  the generations of the next thousand years will honor you and thank you.  "That is the meaning of life, that divinity, awakens in the blood. But  only in pure blood does it live! Of whom have I spoken? Of my ancestors?  They are only a symbol of the Folk of which i am a living part. To whom  have I spoken? To my son? My son is only a part of my Folk. The wisdom  of a thousand generations slumbers in you. Waken it and you have found  the key which will open the doors of your truest aspirations. Only he  who esteems himself is worthy of being a man. Only he is a man who bears  the living past and future in himself, for only he is able to stand  above the present hour. And only he who is master of the present is  successful; he alone is fulfilled. As only in fulfillment is divinity.  Thus sayeth the Voice of our Ancestors...

The Pagan Snow White And The Evil Queen Christianity.
* Church of Creativity Legatus for Pennsylvania Prison Region.
* Currently serving 40 years in prison because of Skinhead police informants.
* More @ https://creativityalliance.com/prison-ministries/prison-letters/stephen-masten-snitches

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The Only Recording Of Hitlers Normal Speaking Voice.

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