The ministry of John & Bron Fergusson
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King Solomon’s Deadly Legacy

 John Fergusson

1999, Gloucestershire, England The dream was in full color. The hands, sticky with blood, sent chills up Simon's spine. A butcher- priest sliced another throat as if slicing through bread. Red spattered his tunic, the blood pooling around his bare feet. Simon grabbed his stomach and heaved. He wanted to run but his feet refused to move. Across a broad hilltop, a hundred other priests were killing―fast, efficient. Young boys hauled calves and lambs on short ropes toward the slaughter. With eyes bulging, the animals struggled and moaned. Vultures wheeled in the clear sky, waiting. A golden-skinned youth wearing a purple robe watched the carnage, unmoved. To his right stood an older man in blue, and beyond them, a tattered tent. A high cloth wall surrounded the hilltop, and voices filtered in from outside. In front of the tent, a fire blazed above a large altar. The priests threw butchered flesh into the flames. Acrid smoke swept towards Simon. He blinked and gagged at the stench. The youth lifted his hands to the sky. No fire fell. No lightning flashed. Just black smoke, burning Simon's throat. The golden-skinned youth glanced at the older priest and shrugged. The old man's voice sounded strong, assured. Simon didn't understand the language. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He had to escape. A rope tightened around his neck. He dug in his hooves, but a boy dragged him to the waiting slaughter.
 JF Ministries
John & Bron Fergusson

King Solomon’s Deadly

Legacy

 John Fergusson

1999, Gloucestershire, England The dream was in full color. The hands, sticky with blood, sent chills up Simon's spine. A butcher- priest sliced another throat as if slicing through bread. Red spattered his tunic, the blood pooling around his bare feet. Simon grabbed his stomach and heaved. He wanted to run but his feet refused to move. Across a broad hilltop, a hundred other priests were killing―fast, efficient. Young boys hauled calves and lambs on short ropes toward the slaughter. With eyes bulging, the animals struggled and moaned. Vultures wheeled in the clear sky, waiting. A golden-skinned youth wearing a purple robe watched the carnage, unmoved. To his right stood an older man in blue, and beyond them, a tattered tent. A high cloth wall surrounded the hilltop, and voices filtered in from outside. In front of the tent, a fire blazed above a large altar. The priests threw butchered flesh into the flames. Acrid smoke swept towards Simon. He blinked and gagged at the stench. The youth lifted his hands to the sky. No fire fell. No lightning flashed. Just black smoke, burning Simon's throat. The golden-skinned youth glanced at the older priest and shrugged. The old man's voice sounded strong, assured. Simon didn't understand the language. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He had to escape. A rope tightened around his neck. He dug in his hooves, but a boy dragged him to the waiting slaughter.