Forged By Fire Angel Quotes

I want you in my arms. I want you in my bed. I want to bury myself deep inside you and feel you shatter beneath me, again and again. I want you daily, nightly, repeatedly, constantly, forever. And when I know it’s safe to take you, you’d best be ready. If you’re not, you’d better run and hide, because it will take a legion of angels and demons to keep me off of you.

Don’t settle, Genevieve. Don’t let strangers grope you on dance floors. Don’t allow college boys to fondle you in doorways. Don’t waver in uncertainty about your own desires....Know what you want. Endeavor to seize it, and keep it when you do.

Blue fire ran along the blade. With the Goddess’s commanding pose and a flaming sword in hand, she resembled angel Uriel.

For the first time I understood the dogma of eternal pain -- appreciated "the glad tidings of great joy." For the first time my imagination grasped the height and depth of the Christian horror. Then I said: "It is a lie, and I hate your religion. If it is true, I hate your God." From that day I have had no fear, no doubt. For me, on that day, the flames of hell were quenched. From that day I have passionately hated every orthodox creed. That Sermon did some good. In the Old Testament, they said. God is the judge -- but in the New, Christ is the merciful. As a matter of fact, the New Testament is infinitely worse than the Old. In the Old there is no threat of eternal pain. Jehovah had no eternal prison -- no everlasting fire. His hatred ended at the grave. His revenge was satisfied when his enemy was dead. In the New Testament, death is not the end, but the beginning of punishment that has no end. In the New Testament the malice of God is infinite and the hunger of his revenge eternal. The orthodox God, when clothed in human flesh, told his disciples not to resist evil, to love their enemies, and when smitten on one cheek to turn the other, and yet we are told that this same God, with the same loving lips, uttered these heartless, these fiendish words; "Depart ye cursed into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels." These are the words of "eternal love." No human being has imagination enough to conceive of this infinite horror. All that the human race has suffered in war and want, in pestilence and famine, in fire and flood, -- all the pangs and pains of every disease and every death -- all this is as nothing compared with the agonies to be endured by one lost soul. This is the consolation of the Christian religion. This is the justice of God -- the mercy of Christ. This frightful dogma, this infinite lie, made me the implacable enemy of Christianity. The truth is that this belief in eternal pain has been the real persecutor. It founded the Inquisition, forged the chains, and furnished the fagots. It has darkened the lives of many millions. It made the cradle as terrible as the coffin. It enslaved nations and shed the blood of countless thousands. It sacrificed the wisest, the bravest and the best. It subverted the idea of justice, drove mercy from the heart, changed men to fiends and banished reason from the brain. Like a venomous serpent it crawls and coils and hisses in every orthodox creed. It makes man an eternal victim and God an eternal fiend. It is the one infinite horror. Every church in which it is taught is a public curse. Every preacher who teaches it is an enemy of mankind. Below this Christian dogma, savagery cannot go. It is the infinite of malice, hatred, and revenge. Nothing could add to the horror of hell, except the presence of its creator, God. While I have life, as long as I draw breath, I shall deny with all my strength, and hate with every drop of my blood, this infinite lie.

- Surly clouds blacken to make fire rims at that forge where night’s being hammered, crazed mountains march to the sunset like drunken cavaliers in Messina when Ursula was fair, I would swear that Hozomeen would move if we could induce him but he spends the night with me and soon when stars rain down the snowfields he’ll be in the pink of pride all black and yaw-y to the north where (just above him every night) North Star flashes pastel orange, pastel green, iron orange, iron blue, azurite indicative constellative auguries of her makeup there that you could weigh on the scales of the golden world - The wind, the wind -

Islam tells us that on the unappealable Day of Judgment, all who have perpetrated images of living things will reawaken with their works, and will be ordered to blow life into them, and they will fail, and they and their works will be cast into the fires of punishment. As a child, I knew that horror of the spectral duplication or multiplication of reality, but mine would come as I stood before large mirrors. As soon as it began to grow dark outside, the constant, infallible functioning of mirrors, the way they followed my every movement, their cosmic pantomime, would seem eerie to me. One of my insistent pleas to God and my guardian angel was that I not dream of mirrors; I recall clearly that I would keep one eye on them uneasily. I feared sometimes that they would begin to veer off from reality; other times, that I would see my face in them disfigured by strange misfortunes. I have learned that this horror is monstrously abroad in the world again. The story is quite simple, and terribly unpleasant. In 1927, I met a grave young woman, first by telephone (because Julia began as a voice without a name or face) and then on a corner at nightfall. Her eyes were alarmingly large, her hair jet black and straight, her figure severe. She was the granddaughter and greatgranddaughter of Federalists, as I was the grandson and great-grandson of Unitarians,* but that ancient discord between our lineages was, for us, a bond, a fuller possession of our homeland. She lived with her family in a big run-down high-ceiling'd house, in the resentment and savorlessness of genteel poverty. In the afternoons— only very rarely at night—we would go out walking through her neighbor-hood, which was Balvanera.* We would stroll along beside the high blank wall of the railway yard; once we walked down Sarmien to all the way to the cleared grounds of the Parque Centenario.*Between us there was neither love itself nor the fiction of love; I sensed in her an intensity that was utterly unlike the intensity of eroticism, and I feared it. In order to forge an intimacy with women, one often tells them about true or apocryphal things that happened in one's youth; I must have told her at some point about my horror of mirrors, and so in 1928 I must have planted the hallucination that was to flower in 1931. Now I have just learned that she has gone insane, and that in her room all the mirrors are covered, because she sees my reflection in them— usurping her own—and she trembles and cannot speak, and says that I am magically following her, watching her, stalking her. What dreadful bondage, the bondage of my face—or one of my former faces. Its odious fate makes me odious as well, but I don't care anymore.

The reason I cannot be a cynic, the reason I refuse to despair, the reason I hold on to hope despite everything being on fire is that, along with the apostle Paul, I too am “convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Rom 8: 38-39). And so I say it without embarrassment: everything is going to be all right.

She , Soul-Seer, Healer of hearts Soother of Hurts Keeper of Mystical Keys Her eyes gazing at the ethers The Moon her wise counsel The Sun her radiant protector The Stars her Angels The grounding earth her energies The still waters her depth Her tongue the fire of the holy spirit Her will symmetrically aligned As with laws of ancient lands She that foretold secrets Unlocking Mysteries of untold Sagas Taking measure of legends from Kings and queens High Priestess , Warrior, Gypsy Queen She that sits enthroned waiting She, no Man’s slave , Kings have bowed to her Queens harken her advise No ordinary Mortal will do for her Only her immortal beloved half They were both forged in blood , dust and bone Their Hearts sealed as one by their sire For Immortals are not born but created Made in God’s eternal Twinflame fire ~ JC © 2020

That blade was forged in heavenly fire and bears within its hilt the feather of an angel," said Wayland. "When it touched the blood of Belial, it cried out. You did not hear it. You are only a mortal," the smith relented. "And it has been a long age since mortals knew to see to the soul of their swords.

The first-born from Eve (with the spirit of Lilith) with Samael gave life to the First Satanist, the Adversary of slave-mentality and the mass of sheep, Cain. The ancient myths and legends regarding Cain demonstrate mythical and poetic symbols represented in the Adepts of Luciferian Witchcraft. Cain is present within many traditions of the craft, ours is the more sinister path which instructs and initiates the neophyte to understand the symbolic meaning and teachings beneath the “mask” of Cain. The neophyte seeks a path of self-determined journey towards liberation from restrictive dogma, attaining knowledge and experience to not only trust our instincts, but also to allow your conscious mind to balance your choices in life. The Adversary shocks, inspires terror at first, thrusts the neophyte into the abyss and tests are given for which the initiate must answer and conquer with an iron will. The isolation and loneliness of the neophyte who takes the first steps upon the Left-Hand Path are to sacrifice the mundane, old self that you ‘were’ (as Adam the profane clay before) to the fires of the Blackened Forge of Cain and your Daemon. As you begin to think as Cain the forge brings forth the Adept, thinking ‘like’ Cain and the Luciferian Watchers of our linage unspoken.

The Luciferian becomes slowly aware that they are alone and isolated in the world as the initiate is becoming ‘other’. Cain is uniquely ‘other’ in that he is at the very least an ‘outsider’ to the tribe, his witch blood and way of thinking becomes different from the others. The concept of the tribal god, Yahweh has no connection to Cain and his father and brother, Adam. The symbolic antinomian act of Cain killing Abel is the selfdetermined act of culling the former ‘clay’ of self, the conscious unaware ‘former’ symbol of who you were. Rather than Cain being some stained, tainted cast-off of Yahweh’s religious believers, he is restored as a symbol and metaphor of self-determined power and strength of Will. The traits of Cain are Luciferian: independent, determined, antinomian in instincts and both a master of his craft in both witchcraft and metals in the shape of ‘Tubal Cain”. In several different traditions of witchcraft, Cain is the second metallurgical artist or sorcerer; the Black Smith of the Forge who came after only Azazel who descended with the 200 Watchers upon Mount Hermon. Those who have heard the distant voices upon the winds, calling for you to seek the Devil’s Path and the pleasure of the Infernal Sabbat will enter the circle alone. In isolation from others the neophyte begins to forge the Luciferian Spirit, ignited and selfimmolated with the Black Flame. This is the gift of divine consciousness, given to us by our father who has many names: Azazel, Samael and Lucifer are but a few. The Adversary challenges us to strike down the common self, the mundane clay of Adam as the self before initiation. Luciferians soon wear and assimilate the Deific Mask of Cain, the metaphor of Infernal Union and the mediator between earth and spirit. The Black Flame ignited is that which consumes our former shell and now to walk the Left-Hand Path as both Daemon and Witch-born Nephilim. The Mask of Cain demands the killing of Abel, our Daemon calling for the offering of blood and an iron will to slay the vulgar clay of our former self. Recognize here is both metaphor and cipher, listen to your instincts towards the forbidden knowledge of your Daemon! Know that we bring to Disorder all that is Sacred, rejecting traditions many clings to in a desperate attempt of building selfidentity. The Shadow’d Ones of Azazel are aware of self, the possibilities and potential within the Circle of Self. The Gnosis of Cain is the Shedding of the Serpent’s Skin, to forge the Daemon from the Fires of Azazel and Qayin.

Your traditions restrict you, weaken and slow your mind. What you hold as “good” I reject as a conceit and false pride. Only in achievement can pride be kept to a whisper. The profane and small minded always announce their might. I tear the throat out of those speaking of traditions weak, Faiths which open the prison of the Right. Let us feed upon the carrion of those we crush under cloven hoof. Knowledge with experience is the path of the Adversary. To oppose those who claim, “Our traditions are Right”. We are of the Lie, the word of Drauga, our shapes everchanging. The shadow we cast is the predator which stalks the ignorant, Striking with the Forbidden Knowledge and Patterns of Power. Our forms are not of Pride, they are merely clothing to be cast off. My essence is of Blackened Fire, a single torch between my Two-Horns. Pride is enhanced with boundaries. Upon this Path, you must forge your own Spirit into Daemon, That Skill so taught by Cain and Azazel, the Sorceries of Lilith Shall shape the desires into the living flesh. If you build a temple of strict traditions, even by majority thought, we will burn it and trample even doctrines I gave as knowledge. Trespass all boundaries and seize with noble right. That World of Flesh, Beauty and Horror in blazing passion of Becoming. In this World of Time and restrictive belief, I will shatter the lesser to create Disorder. Chaos and the Abyss are that from which All is Created Anew. AZOTHOZ!