You fill your coffers with the paper money of the bankers and they have become your masters. They tell not what to say but what not to say. You are whores of Satan himself. “Tithe my flock; bring me my sustenance from the bowls of Hell. I shall tickle your ears with the sirens song”.

You have failed in your duty and your actions convict you. You have allowed the things of beauty, that God has freely given, to become far from your mind. Even the lights of your churches blind you to the stars, and the night becomes a haze of your polluted electric salvation.

The Bankers, the Devils servant, own you, and they are masters darkness. They laugh at your “Jesus”, water down, torn asunder and pulled off the cross. Your altars have been replaced with lecterns and big screen TV’s.

The sacred music of old now has become the sickening sounds of a Godless culture. Even the artwork of your buildings accuses you night and day. While a frightening creature in the distance watches them, exclaiming; “Build them, build them strong, and I shall tear them down, you lovers of death!”