The season has come. A season of giving, it's said. Peace on earth and all that jazz.

A time when men follow mostly in tradition, and think very little of scripture.

The children receive presents they have neither purchased nor paid for. They eat, despite having done no work to earn it. They roast nuts on a fire, as the song goes, but give little thought to the unrepentent wicked who ought to be roasting over a fire for their sins.

A family gathers and agrees not to talk about religion or politics, as if ignoring the ongoing genocide and de-personing and demoralization is going to absolve them of the duties they're shirking to love your neighbor. Oh, and by the way, also God.

In the beginning, there was the word. And the word was with God. And the word was God. The alpha and omega. The beginning and the end. The God on a cross sacrificing himself as payment for your sins, in forgiveness of deadly, destructive, treasonous sins that send your neighbors to be punished and tormented and tortured to death, dismembered and flayed, roasted and burned, turned over a spit instead of our enemies.

And then sold into slavery, where their genes, ethnicity, their heritage is forever blotted out by a pen containing the blackest and most permanent of all ink.

In the winter, we're reminded of the wrath of the lamb, the wrath of the slain, when the Son of Man, our Lord will come in a multitude of all his believers in their tens of thousands, when the wicked will flee for the mountains, and those who are pregnant or nursing should pray He doesn't come for them in the cold of winter.

When they cry out to the Lord, but none answers.

Throwing their silver and gold aside, knees wobbling like water as they try to run up the hills to flee from the horrors behind them. And at the top of the hill, the Lord returned.

The godlelss hypocrites of the synagogue of Satan will worship at your feet and confess that God has loved you.

Filthy rats fleeing a burning building.

And there will be a new Jerusalem.