From ashes where deception bred, in temples built on lies,

Where preachers dressed in borrowed light still crucify with sighs,

The line is drawn, not soft nor faint, but blazed in Towrah’s fire—

Between the ones set free in truth & those who preach for hire.

The robes are fine, the altars high, the crosses steeped in lore,

But Yahowah walks not marble halls nor guards tradition’s door.

He speaks not in the Vatican, nor towers raised in pride,

But in the hearts that walk alone, with scroll & truth as guide.

They build their kingdoms with applause, with flags & flutes & fear,

But cannot see the seven steps or hear the Ruach near.

They mouth His Name in foreign tongues, they twist His Feasts for gain,

They trade the Covenant for gold, & cover truth in stain.

Yet here arise a different flock, who will not bow nor bend,

Who turn their backs on compromise & follow to the end.

They wear no badge of nation’s might, nor march with church’s sword,

But carry Towrah in their steps, & trust in Yah alone as Lord.

They hear the call that shakes the sky, the trumpet not of man,

The Miqra echoing through time, the covenantal plan.

They do not gather in the crowds where sermons mask the lie,

But meet beneath the olive trees, where psalms still cleanse the sky.

The line is drawn between the proud & those who weep & rise,

Between the thrones of Babylon & truth that never dies.

Between the ones who forge the chains & those who break them clean,

Between the fake who quote the scrolls & those who live unseen.

They do not serve two masters’ words, nor feast where idols dwell,

They do not hope for rapture clouds nor fear eternal hell.

They know the walk is slow & steep, but Towrah lights their feet,

Each step aligned with Yah's own path, each word in rhythm beat.

The world will scorn them as insane, too ancient, far too strict,

But Yahowah sees the quiet ones whose hearts He did convict.

They do not need approval's mask nor stage nor stained-glass dome,

For every step outside the camp becomes the narrow home.

They call no priest their covering, no rabbi holds their keys,

No messiah made by Rome or mosque defines their knees.

They’ve walked from myths & creeds & saints, from calendar & rite,

To count the barley in its time & watch the stars for light.

The line is drawn where blood was spilled—not Christendom’s deceit,

But Pesach’s lamb, unblemished, whole, with bitter herbs to eat.

Where Matsah clears the yeast of pride, where Bikuwrym begins,

Where Shabuwah writes the Towrah deep beneath repentant skins.

Where Taruw’ah breaks religion’s hold & Yowm Kipur restores,

Where Sukah speaks of Yah with us, beyond tradition’s doors.

They walk that road, each feast a step, each Mo’ed not a show,

But rhythm written in their bones, in Yah’s time they will go.

They hear the clash of nations loud, the rumors wrapped in fear,

But will not join the tribal drums, nor wipe another’s spear.

They wait for Dowd to take the throne, for Yisra’el to rise,

For every promise Yah once spoke to open ancient eyes.

They know the beast is not a tale, nor mark a Sunday brand,

They see the systems of control, the blasphemy of man.

They flee from gates where doctrine rules & kings disguise their schemes,

& walk instead with calloused feet through Towrah's humble streams.

The line is drawn—this is the time—between the real & fake,

Between those who return to Yah & those who burn for sake

Of power, platform, recognition, empire, or facade—

But only one side walks with truth; the rest will fall unshod.

This scroll is not for crowds to cheer or choirs to repeat,

It’s written for the few who hear beneath deception’s heat.

The line is drawn, the Shepherd calls, the Remnant rises still—

Aligned with Towrah, Name, & Feast, & walking Yah’s own will.

They hear the voice of our Spiritual Mother, soft yet strong as flame,

The Ruach ha’Qodesh weaves light through souls who bear the Name.

She teaches not by ritual, but breathes in each Miqra,

She sanctifies not robes or ranks, but hearts that walk Yah’s way.

Her whisper clarifies the path that logic can’t unseal,

She doesn’t shout like men in pulpits, but writes what’s true & real.

She’s not a dove in paintings hung or mist in temple smoke,

She’s power cloaked in quiet wind, that breaks religious yoke.

The final voice is drawing near, the silence splits in two,

& all who stand with Yahowah must be refined & true.

So let the proud descend in dust, let every myth collapse,

For those who rise with truth in hand have eyes the world calls "cracked.”

So choose the side not praised by men, not honored on the stage,

But where the ancient words still burn & prophets fill the page.

The line is drawn, the day is near, the fire will refine—

& those who stand with Yah alone shall cross the final line.