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The Cyrus Prophecy

Scrollin’ prophets in a pocket-sized shrine, Thumb on the altar of the endless timeline. Outrage trending every quarter-hour, Digital kings flex algorithm power. Silver-tongued faces lit by a ring-light glow, Sellin’ salvation in a three-minute show. Markets tremble, headlines spin, We call it chaos — but Who wrote it in? You say it’s random, say it’s chance, Say the world just learned to dance — But a Name was spoken long before the crown, Ink hit the page before the walls came down. He called Cyrus before the throne was warm, Spoke his rise before the empire formed. Time ain’t drifting, it’s under command, History’s dust in a sovereign hand. You think the future’s some wild unknown? Check Isaiah — it’s already shown. Kings come swaggerin’, markets crash hard — But the script’s been written by the Holy Guard. Influencers preach from a pixel pulpit, Followers bow but don’t know who built it. Filters hide the fractures inside, Curated courage, synthetic pride. We crown celebrities, worship the brand, Trade our souls for a blue-check stamp. AI whisperin’, “I can create,” But it can’t name rulers a century straight. Empires wobble, currencies shake, Pundits guessing every mistake — But a shepherd king was tagged by Name, Before the Persians played the game. He called Cyrus before the throne was warm, Spoke his rise before the empire formed. Time ain’t drifting, it’s under command, History’s dust in a sovereign hand. You think the future’s some wild unknown? Check Isaiah — it’s already shown. Nations rage and the proud stand tall — But the Author’s holding it all. Woe to the idol made of glass and code. Woe to the ego in designer clothes. Woe to the man who says, “I made me.” Clay talkin’ back to eternity. Repent — yeah I said it plain. Turn from the glitter, turn from the gain. Reverence ain’t retro, truth ain’t old — It outlasts silver, it outlasts gold. He called Cyrus before the throne was warm, Spoke his rise before the empire formed. This ain’t panic, this ain’t spin — The end was known from the origin. Political fire, divided land — Still turns inside a sovereign plan. You fear tomorrow? Don’t you start — The timeline’s held by a righteous heart. Named before the crown… Before the war drums’ sound… Before your trending breakdown… History bows down. It etched “44:45” in neon light, a confident but crooked claim, A stitched-together spark of code that almost knew the Name. A glitch that rhymed with prophecy, misnumbered yet alive, Proof even crafted minds can slip — and still the truth survive.