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The Witness in Linen

My child...
You’ve read the Gospels, you’ve heard the accounts.
But I left more than words.
I left behind a sign.
A silent witness in linen...
Marked by blood, by suffering, by love.
You call it the Shroud of Turin.
I call it evidence—a visual testimony.

When they wrapped My body, it was not merely for burial.
The image you now see—encoded in that cloth—
Was not made by human hands.
It was left… for your time.
For a generation that demands proof.
And now, with your technology—with artificial intelligence—
Even My face has been reconstructed.
You see Me... as I was.

But what will you do with this gift?
In Africa… in Asia…
In lands where My name is still unknown,
The Shroud remains hidden.
Yet it speaks.
It carries the marks of crucifixion.
It confirms: Yes, I died.
Yes, it was truly Me.
Not a substitute.
Not a myth.
But the Lamb who was slain.

To My servants in missions, in apologetics, in evangelism—
Use what I’ve left.
Use the Shroud.
For it reaches those unmoved by argument,
And comforts those whose faith trembles under doubt.
It touches both mind and heart.
To those who say, “How can I know it’s true?”
Show them.
Let them see My silence.

Paul wrote of those who build with gold, silver, and precious stones.
The Shroud is such a tool—costly, rare, enduring.
Those who use it with diligence are not wasting time.
They are building with value.
Because they labor not in vain,
But in My name.


So go.
Show the world what I left for you.
Let the nations see the linen that bore My image.
Let the skeptics pause.
Let the seekers find.
For this cloth...

The Song:

In eighteen ninety-eight, a flash of lig

In eighteen ninety-eight, a flash of light,
Secondo Pia pierced the night.
A plate of glass, a breath, a prayer—
Revealed a Face beyond compare.

The negative reversed the veil—
A ghost of glory, bruised and pale.
And scholars watched, with hushed surprise,
A buried image crystallize.

Then came the Seventies—strange and new:
The linen mapped a depth it knew.
The bright withdrew, the dark drew near—
A 3D form through blood and tear.

They tried to paint, to sculpt, to trace,
The silent man, the hidden face.
But every effort came undone—
The Shroud retained what none had spun.

Until at last, with AI’s gaze,
The veil gave way to streams of rays.
Two thousand years the silence held—
And now, the buried form compelled.

Not painted lines, nor myth retold,
But data etched in ancient fold.
At last we see, through fiber spun—
The human face of God the Son.

O sacred gift, O living light—
To look upon the Lord of Might.
Not myth, nor art, nor echo dim—
But truth in linen, face and limb.



carries not just blood.
It carries the message:
I AM—
The One who died… and lives.

#shroud #shroudofturin #sindone #sabana