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The Divine Judgment - The Three Days in Hell

In thine advent in Galilee's embrace,

Stood solitary 'gainst infernal trace,

Thou conquered all, mal's potent art,

In faith unyielding, took its part.

And with thee I ventured to hell's domain,

In Bucaramanga, as March did wane,

Twenty-twenty-three, like Buñuel foretold,

"Simon of the Desert," tales of old.

Three days we faced the powers' scorn,

Evil's grip, in Earth's realm born,

Kings and Popes and Wizards fell,

Before the truth, our judgment's swell.

For when responding to their vile intent,

The Holy Spirit's voice was sent,

Thou polished my soul through fifty years,

Defeating vanity, cruelty's sneers.

Here, Mexicans questioned my spirits' embrace,

Alcohol's consumption, in fleeting space,

Supported by Buñuel's sage wit,

"Final judgment, to the utmost fit!"

When ever hath such Mexican words been spoken?

To Jews, thou reminded of Noah, hearts broken,

To Anglo lands, my French descent revealed,

Muslims and Hindus called me, truth concealed.

"We, Christians," I said, "wine we do partake,

In honor of Christ, for heaven's sake,

Who for secret sins, bore the weight,

Apologies in Arabic, thy phone did state.

"Why hath discord marred kinship's bond?"

Gurus of Ganesha questioned, respond,

"Caiphas!" thou cried, "since tender youth,

Beaten for kindness, love's sweet truth."

Realized, for love of thy return's embrace,

I bore decades of the world's disgrace,

By those who vilified thee, scorned and mocked,

Caiphas, Pilate, thieves who talked.

Soldiers and Pharisees, together we stood,

Throughout my journey, life's ebb and flood,

Persecutions heaped, lie's whispered breath,

Your truth, my lips spoke through life and death.

In languages myriad, through darkness it spread,

The truth in shadows, by my tongue was shed,

Together we tamed inferno's wrath,

A battle won on a spiritual path.

Since then, we've lived a life reborn,

The third world war, by us was torn,

Powers crumble, the world anew,

Colombia's end, August twelve, comes into view.

To their scribes they command, inflate each death,

Of policemen's quarrels, every fiery breath,

Terrorists' grenades that leave none slain,

Detonations wound, inflict pain.

Deaths shan't cease, I say, but they'll be picked,

Those with me, arcadia's realm shall be licked,

Desire to kill, like withered fruit's fate,

For I am not only Hugo, nor just Petrus, but Resurrected, great.

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