The short answer is that Native Americans originally came to North and South America as a result of the dispersion at the Tower of Babel.
Native Americans and the Bible - Answers in Genesis
Are Native Americans a lost tribe of Israel?
Evidently the Mormons try and connect native Americans with the Hebrews by language and religious practice. Not a word of this is in God's Book, the Bible. Hold on to your skepticism.
(The above article on Native Americans (A lost tribe of Israel?) does not believe the Biblical view of time and peoples generating out from the Tower of Babel (Young Earth), but put the Indian people in North America around 22,000 years ago. I personally follow the Bible on origins, so am in agreement with the timeline from Babel. But, let's read and use the "little grey cells" as Poirot would say! - Linda)
Showing posts with label History. Show all posts
Showing posts with label History. Show all posts
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Sennacherib
Isaiah 17:1 "Behold, Damascus is taken away from being a city, and it shall be a ruinous heap."
A near fulfilment in Isaiah's day (B.C. 726) in Sennacherib's approaching invasion, but the chapter looks forward to the final invasion and battle of Armageddon (Revelation 16:14-16).
Sennacherib - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
The Destruction of Sennacherib is a poem by Lord Byron first published in 1815 in his Hebrew Melodies. It is based on an event described in the Bible (2 Kings 18-19) during the campaign by Assyrian king Sennacherib to capture Jerusalem. The rhythm of the poem has a feel of the beat of a galloping horse's hooves as the Assyrian rides into battle.
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
A near fulfilment in Isaiah's day (B.C. 726) in Sennacherib's approaching invasion, but the chapter looks forward to the final invasion and battle of Armageddon (Revelation 16:14-16).
Sennacherib - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
The Destruction of Sennacherib is a poem by Lord Byron first published in 1815 in his Hebrew Melodies. It is based on an event described in the Bible (2 Kings 18-19) during the campaign by Assyrian king Sennacherib to capture Jerusalem. The rhythm of the poem has a feel of the beat of a galloping horse's hooves as the Assyrian rides into battle.
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
Friday, April 30, 2010
America, like a hero. . .
I am, proudly, a culturalist.
My culture, American, is vastly superior to every other. All things considered.
Those Scandinavian countries, whence my ancestors, are ever so wonderful, as all of Europe must be, if you just want to get by, you know, hoping not to be invaded, and maybe some great but unnamed power will keep you safe, or rescue you.
Now who might that be? No matter. Point is, American character -- not diet -- is like a hero in the book of Judges. A great cry comes unto the Lord, and a savior rises up. America.
(- from Forgotten Prophets blog, article: Zoom.)
(I think so, too. America to the rescue? Maybe not again. You're on your own, nice people of Scandinavia. - Linda.)
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald
http://americandigest.org/mt-archives/art_within_america/the_wreck_of_the_edmund_f.php
November 10, 1975
by Gordon Lightfoot
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee.
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead when the skies of November turn gloomy.
With a load of iron ore - 26,000 tons more than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty,
That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed when the gales of November came early.
The ship was the pride of the American side, coming back from some mill in Wisconsin,
As the big freighters go it was bigger than most with a crew and the Captain well seasoned.
Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms when they left fully loaded for Cleveland,
And later that night when the ships bell rang, could it be the North Wind they'd been feeling?
The wind in the wires made a tattletale sound and a wave broke over the railing,
And every man knew, as the Captain did, too, t'was the witch of November come stealing.
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait when the gales of November came slashing,
When afternoon came it was freezing rain in the face of a hurricane West Wind.
When supper time came the old cook came on deck saying fellows it's too rough to feed ya,
At 7PM a main hatchway caved in he said fellas it's been good to know ya.
The Captain wired in he had water coming in and the good ship and crew was in peril,
And later that night when his lights went out of sight came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.
Does anyone know where the love of God goes when the words turn the minutes to hours?
The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay if they'd fifteen more miles behind her.
They might have split up or they might have capsized, they may have broke deep and took water, And all that remains is the faces and the names of the wives and the sons and the daughters.
Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings in the ruins of her ice water mansion,
Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams, the islands and bays are for sportsmen.
And farther below Lake Ontario takes in what Lake Erie can send her,
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know with the gales of November remembered.
In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed, in the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral,
The church bell chimed, 'til it rang 29 times for each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald.
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee,
Superior, they say, never gives up her dead when the gales of November come early.
November 10, 1975
by Gordon Lightfoot
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee.
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead when the skies of November turn gloomy.
With a load of iron ore - 26,000 tons more than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty,
That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed when the gales of November came early.
The ship was the pride of the American side, coming back from some mill in Wisconsin,
As the big freighters go it was bigger than most with a crew and the Captain well seasoned.
Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms when they left fully loaded for Cleveland,
And later that night when the ships bell rang, could it be the North Wind they'd been feeling?
The wind in the wires made a tattletale sound and a wave broke over the railing,
And every man knew, as the Captain did, too, t'was the witch of November come stealing.
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait when the gales of November came slashing,
When afternoon came it was freezing rain in the face of a hurricane West Wind.
When supper time came the old cook came on deck saying fellows it's too rough to feed ya,
At 7PM a main hatchway caved in he said fellas it's been good to know ya.
The Captain wired in he had water coming in and the good ship and crew was in peril,
And later that night when his lights went out of sight came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.
Does anyone know where the love of God goes when the words turn the minutes to hours?
The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay if they'd fifteen more miles behind her.
They might have split up or they might have capsized, they may have broke deep and took water, And all that remains is the faces and the names of the wives and the sons and the daughters.
Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings in the ruins of her ice water mansion,
Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams, the islands and bays are for sportsmen.
And farther below Lake Ontario takes in what Lake Erie can send her,
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know with the gales of November remembered.
In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed, in the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral,
The church bell chimed, 'til it rang 29 times for each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald.
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee,
Superior, they say, never gives up her dead when the gales of November come early.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Baal worship. . .
Carthage
Most of Roman Carthage (which was the third largest Roman metropolis in the 200-400 era, after Rome and Alexandria - the population was around 300,000) is buried beneath the modern town of Carthage, but some that is accessible has been excavated.
After the Third Punic War in 146 BC, very little remained of the old Phoenician Carthage - except things like these boxes. The Phoenicians worshipped Baal, who required that everybody's first-born be sacrificed. The ashes of these kids were buried in these sad little stone boxes.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Man's day. . .
On Sept. 1, 1939, 70 years ago, the German Army crossed the Polish frontier. On Sept. 3, Britain declared war.
Six years later, 50 million Christians and Jews had perished. Britain was broken and bankrupt, Germany a smoldering ruin. Europe had served as the site of the most murderous combat known to man, and civilians had suffered worse horrors than the soldiers.
By May 1945, Red Army hordes occupied all the great capitals of Central Europe: Vienna, Prague, Budapest, Berlin. A hundred million Christians were under the heel of the most barbarous tyranny in history: the Bolshevik regime of the greatest terrorist of them all, Joseph Stalin.
"Wars and rumours of wars" (Matthew 24:6).
Today is man's day. Jesus Christ is rejected from this world, but He said He will return.
"Arise, O LORD; let not man prevail: let the heathen be judged in Thy sight. Put them in fear, O LORD: that the nations may know themselves to be but men" (Psalm 9:19.20).
Amen. Let it be so.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Anzio
Anzio is one of the saddest places I have ever been. (Comment on article regarding Hanson's visit to Anzio.)
Works and Days » Wandering Around Europe:
There is a beautiful American military cemetery at Anzio (Nettuno, Italy), an eerie place where 7,681 dead Americans rest. It is perhaps made the more eerie when one reads of the deer-in-the-headlights generalship of a well-meaning, but inept Gen. John Lucas, and the weird megalomania of Gen. Mark Clark that cheek-by-jowl tragically ensured that a badly planned amphibious landing would get even worse as it progressed. Meanwhile Patton was cooling his heels, in punishment for slapping two American soldiers. Never has such a slap cost so many American lives.
(Victor Davis Hanson)
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