This man was supposed to be the supreme leader of Iran.

By every measure of lineage, by every measure of scholarship and by every law of the Islamic Republic, the seat of power belong to him.

But today, he is not sitting on a throne in Tehran.

He is not issuing fatwas to millions of followers.

Instead, Grand Ayatollah Muhammad Hassan Tabatabai is the number one most wanted fugitive in the Middle East.

He is running for his life.

He is hiding in shadows, moving from safe house to safe house, hunted by the very revolutionary guards he once commanded.

Why? What could turn the most powerful religious figure in the Shia world into a marked man? The answer lies in a period of 72 hours.

72 hours where his body lay cold and unresponsive in a VIP hospital room in Tehran.

72 hours where the doctors declared him medically dead.

But while the world thought he was gone, he was traveling through a reality that no theology book had ever prepared him for.

He brought back a message, a specific, terrifying, and undeniable warning for the year 2026.

A warning that the regime in Iran is trying to silence with every bullet and every agent at their disposal.

But before we open the file of his testimony, before I share with you the recording that was smuggled out of Aon at the risk of death, I need to tell you why this matters to you right now, today.

Last week, I received an encrypted message.

It came from a viewer, a sister in faith living deep within the heart of Terrron.

Let’s call her Sarah to protect her identity.

When I opened her message, I could almost feel her hands trembling through the screen.

She wrote to me saying that the atmosphere in the streets of Tehran has changed.

It is not just the political unrest.

It is not just the economic collapse.

She said there is a spiritual heaviness, a thick darkness that hangs over the city like a suffocating blanket.

She told me that everyone from the shopkeepers in the bizaar to the taxi drivers feels that something catastrophic is approaching.

They whisper about the year 2026.

They do not know why, but they feel a deadline looming.

She ended her letter with a plea that broke my heart.

She said, “We are afraid that when the darkness falls, we will be left alone.

We need to know if there is a light that can withstand what is coming.

” Sarah, if you are watching this and to every single one of you watching from around the world who feels that same anxiety in your spirit, this video is for you.

Grand Ayatollah Tabataba saw what is coming in 2026.

He saw the darkness that you fear.

But he also saw something else.

He saw a light so powerful, so overwhelming that it shattered the chains of death itself.

Today we are going to break the silence.

We are going to expose the secret that the Iranian intelligence, the Vive, has tried to scrub from the internet.

We are going to walk with the grand Ayatollah through the valley of the shadow of death.

We will stand with him as he faces the judgment of his own religion.

And we will witness the moment that changed history.

But I must warn you, this is not just a story.

This is a preparation.

The warning for 2026 is real.

The clock is ticking and what you are about to hear might be the only thing that prepares you for the storm that is gathering on the horizon.

Do not turn away.

Do not skip ahead because the message he brought back from the dead is meant for you.

To understand the magnitude of the miracle, we must first understand the height for which this man fell.

We must go back to the world of velvet robes, black turbons and absolute power.

We must step into the shoes of a man who was considered almost holy by millions of people.

Grand Ayatollah Muhammad Hassan Tabatabai was not just a religious teacher.

In the hierarchy of Shia Islam, the title of Grand Ayatollah is the pinnacle.

It is reserved for the very few.

But Tabatabai was even more special.

He was a siad.

In the complex tapestry of Iranian society, the black turban signifies that a man is a direct descendant of the prophet Muhammad.

It grants him a status that is royalty without a crown.

When he walked through the streets of calm, the holy city, crowds would part like the Red Sea.

Men would rush to kiss his hand.

Women would weep just to touch the hem of his robe.

He carried the weight of 1,400 years of history on his shoulders.

He was a master of Islamic juristprudence.

He had memorized the Quran before he was a teenager.

He had studied the hadiths, the traditions, and the Sharia law until he knew them better than he knew the faces of his own children.

He was the intellectual architect of the faith.

And because of this brilliance, because of this pure lineage, he was the prime candidate to succeed the supreme leader.

He was being groomed to hold the ultimate power in the Islamic Republic.

He sat in the highest councils.

He whispered in the ears of generals and presidents.

He was part of the inner circle that decided the fate of millions.

But as he climbed higher towards the throne, the air grew thinner and it grew colder.

Inside the gilded halls of power, Tabatabai began to see things that the cameras never showed.

He sat in meetings where the name of God was used to justify atrocities that made his soul shudder.

He watched as the supreme leader Ali Kamei and his inner circle made decisions not based on mercy or justice but on brutal calculated preservation of power.

He saw lists of names, lists of young men and women, students, poets, thinkers who were marked for imprisonment or execution simply because they asked a question.

He saw the wealth of the nation intended for the poor and the orphans being siphoned off into the bank accounts of the elite or sent to fund militias in foreign lands.

A crack began to form in the marble foundation of his belief.

He had dedicated his entire life to the law of Allah.

He believed that the Islamic Republic was the vessel of God’s will on earth.

But what he saw was not God.

It was a mafia wearing religious costumes.

He tried to speak up.

At first, he was subtle.

He would quote verses about justice during the private council meetings.

He would remind the generals of the mercy of the prophet.

But his words were met with cold stars and polite silence.

The other Ayatollas, men he had studied with for decades, looked at him with eyes that had lost their light.

They had sold their consciences for influence, and they expected him to do the same.

The turning point came when he was asked to approve a fatwa, a religious ruling that would authorize the crackdown on a peaceful protest.

He looked at the document in front of him.

The ink was black and sharp.

The language was flowery and religious, but the meaning was clear.

It was a death warrant for innocent people.

For the first time in his life, the Grand Dyatollah felt a physical wave of nausea.

He pushed the paper away.

He refused to sign.

That refusal sealed his fate.

The atmosphere around him changed instantly.

The respectful bows of the revolutionary guards turned into suspicious glares.

His phone calls were monitored.

His visitors were questioned.

He was isolated.

The candidate for supreme leader had become a liability.

It was November 3rd, 2024.

A date that is etched into the history of the spiritual realm.

Though the world did not know it yet, Tabetabi was in his private office in Tehran.

The room was lined with ancient books.

The smell of old paper and rose water usually brought him peace.

But that day, the air felt heavy, oppressive.

He had just finished a tense meeting with a representative from the Supreme Leader’s office.

The message had been veiled, but clear.

Get in line or suffer the consequences.

He sat at his mahogany desk, his hand trembling slightly as he reached for his glass of tea.

He took a sip.

It was warm, familiar.

But moments later, a strange sensation bloomed in his chest.

It wasn’t pain, not at first.

It was a tightness.

A crushing pressure, as if an invisible hand had reached inside his rib cage and squeezed his heart.

He tried to stand up to call for his secretary, but his legs refused to obey.

The room began to spin.

The walls of books seemed to melt and close in on him.

He gasped rare, but his lungs felt like they were filled with concrete.

The pain exploded, then radiating down his left arm, shooting up into his jaw.

It was a heart attack, massive and catastrophic.

But in the back of his fading consciousness, a thought flickered.

Was it natural, or was it the tea? The timing was too perfect.

The threat had been too fresh.

He collapsed onto the intricate Persian rug.

His cheek pressed against the cold wool.

He could hear the sound of his own heart, beating erratically, thumping like a trapped bird against the bars of a cage.

Thump, thump, and then dot dotness did not come gradually.

Did not come gradually.

It rushed in like a tidal wave.

The sounds of Terran outside his window faded away.

The pain in his chest vanished, replaced by a terrifying sensation of separation.

He felt himself being ripped away from the floor, ripped away from his body.

He was no longer the grand Ayatollah.

He was no longer a sed.

He was no longer a candidate for power.

He was a naked soul drifting into an abyss that he had spent 60 years warning others about.

He thought he was prepared for death.

He thought his prayers, his pilgrimages, his study of the law would be his armor.

But as the physical world dissolved and the spiritual reality opened its jaws to swallow him, Grand Ayatollah Muhammad Hassan Tabatabi realized with absolute horror that he was completely and utterly unprotected.

The journey had begun, and the destination was not the paradise he had been promised.

The ambulance ride was a blur of noise and chaos that seemed to belong to another world.

I could hear the sirens wailing, a sound that usually commanded traffic to part, but now it sounded like a morning cry for a life that was slipping away.

Inside the vehicle, the paramedics were frantic.

They were shouting codes, checking monitors, and injecting drugs into my veins with a desperation that spoke volumes.

They knew who I was.

They knew that if Grand Ayatollah Tabatabai died on their watch, the consequences from the regime would be severe.

But I was no longer a powerful cleric to them.

I was a failing biological machine, a heart that had stopped beating, a set of lungs that refused to draw air.

We arrived at the Milid Hospital in Thran, a facility reserved for the elite, the commanders of the Revolutionary Guard and the highest ranking Mollas.

I was rushed through a private entrance away from the prying eyes of the public.

I could sense the panic in the hallway.

Doctors were running.

Nurses were clearing the way.

The air smelled of antiseptic and fear.

They transferred my limp body onto a cold metal table in the trauma room.

I could feel the coldness of it seeping through my skin, deeper than the bone, touching the very center of my being.

Then something extraordinary happened.

The pain that had been crushing my chest.

The sensation of the invisible hand squeezing my heart suddenly vanished.

It did not fade away gradually.

It simply ceased.

And in that instant of relief, I opened my eyes.

But I was not looking up at the doctors.

I was looking down at them.

I was floating near the ceiling of the trauma room.

The perspective was impossible.

Yet it was more real than anything I had ever experienced in the physical world.

I saw a body lying on the table below.

It was an old man.

His skin was pale, almost gray, with a tint of blue around the lips.

His turban had been removed, revealing thinning white hair that looked frail and pathetic against the sterile white sheets.

His chest was bare, covered in electrodes and wires.

A team of six medical professionals swarmed around him.

One was performing chest compressions, pushing down with violent force, trying to manually pump blood through the stopped heart.

Another was squeezing a bag over his face to force oxygen into the lungs.

I watched with a detached curiosity.

Who is that old man? I wondered.

And then with a jolt of horror that had no physical sensation, I realized that is me.

That is Muhammad Hassan Tabatabai.

That is the vessel I have inhabited for 70 years.

It looked so small, so empty, like a discarded garment left on the floor.

All the titles, the honors, the fear I inspired in others.

None of it mattered to that piece of meat on the table.

I tried to speak to the doctors.

I wanted to tell them to stop, that I was up here, that I was fine.

I shouted, or at least I thought I shouted.

I commanded them to look up, but my voice had no sound.

It passed through them like wind through smoke.

They continued their frantic work, oblivious to my presence.

I saw the lead cardiologist, a man I recognized, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

He looked terrified.

He shouted for the defibrillator.

I saw the paddles being charged.

I saw them placed on my chest.

I saw the body jump as the electricity coursed through it.

But I felt nothing.

No shock, no pain, only a growing sense of separation.

The monitor let out a long high-pitched tone, a flatline, the sound of death.

The room went silent for a heartbeat.

The doctor looked at the clock on the wall.

He was about to call the time of death, but then he hesitated.

He knew the political storm that would follow this death.

He ordered them to continue.

Keep going.

Don’t stop.

He is a sed.

We cannot lose him.

I drifted higher.

The ceiling of the hospital room dissolved into a mist.

I was moving away from the scene, pulled by a force I could not resist.

It was not a wind but a gravity of the soul.

It was pulling me backward, away from the lights of the hospital, away from the noise of Terron, away from the world of the living.

At this moment, I expected to see what I had preached about for decades.

I expected the angels of death to appear.

I expected to see the gates of paradise opening for a descendant of the prophet.

I had spent my life praying five times a day.

One had fasted during Ramadan.

I had performed the Hajj pilgrimage to Mecca.

I had given alms.

I had enforced the Sharia law.

Surely my account was full.

Surely I was safe.

But there were no angels.

There was no light.

There was only a deepening gray fog that swirled around me.

The feeling of detachment began to change into something else.

Anxiety.

A primal fear that started as a whisper and grew into a scream.

Where was I going? Why was I alone? As I moved further from my body, the connection to the physical world snapped.

The hospital disappeared.

The city of Tehran disappeared.

I was in a void, a place of transition.

And in this place, time did not exist as I knew it.

The doctors later told me I was in a coma for 72 hours.

three days and three nights.

But where I was, there was no sun to rise or set.

There were no clocks to mark the minutes.

It felt like an eternity.

This brings me to a crucial point for everyone watching.

We live our lives thinking we have time.

We think we can repent tomorrow.

We think we can seek the truth later.

But when that moment comes, when the cord is cut, there is no more time.

There is only the reality of your soul.

If you are listening to my voice right now, do not take this warning lightly.

I was a man who thought he had everything prepared for the afterlife.

I had the theology.

I had the rituals.

I had the lineage.

And yet, I found myself drifting into the unknown, utterly unprepared for what was waiting for me in the dark.

If you have not yet subscribed to this channel, I urge you to do so now.

Not for my sake, but for yours.

The things I am about to describe in the next part of my testimony are things that the religious leaders do not want you to know.

They want you to believe that rituals will save you.

They want you to believe that your membership in a religion is an insurance policy against hell.

I am here to tell you that it is a lie.

And I learned that lie the hard way.

By pressing the subscribe button, you are ensuring that you will hear the full truth of the rescue that is coming.

Do not let the algorithm hide this message from you.

Join us as we go deeper into the darkness so [snorts] that we can find the light together.

The gray fog began to darken.

The sensation of floating turned into a sensation of falling down, down into a place where the air itself felt heavy with sorrow.

I tried to recite the Quran.

I tried to say the shahada.

La Allaha ill Allah.

There is no God but Allah.

But the words would not form.

My mouth would not move.

My mind could remember the verses but they had no power here.

They were just empty sounds in a vacuum.

The spiritual authority I had wielded on earth was gone.

I was naked.

I was alone.

and I was falling into a place that I had sent many people to with my condemnations, never thinking that I would be the one to arrive there first.

The descent was not like falling off a cliff.

[snorts] It was more like sinking into the deep ocean.

The pressure increased with every meter.

The darkness became a physical substance, thick and oily, pressing against my eyes, my ears, my skin.

It was not the darkness of a room with the lights turned off.

It was the darkness of a universe where light had never been invented.

It was a living, breathing darkness that seemed to be aware of my presence, and it did not welcome me.

It hungered for me.

I had always imagined hell as a place of fire.

The Quran speaks of burning skins, of boiling water, of scorching winds.

I expected heat.

I expected flames.

But the first thing that hit me was the cold.

It was a cold so absolute, so penetrating that it made the liquid nitrogen in a laboratory feel like a warm bath.

This was not a temperature.

This was the absence of life.

It was the cold of a soul that has been completely cut off from the source of warmth.

It bit into me, paralyzing my spirit, freezing the very essence of who I was.

I realized then that fire is a form of energy, a form of life.

Here there was no energy.

It was only the void.

And then came the smell.

It is difficult to describe a spiritual smell in human language.

But I must try.

It smelled of rotting flowers.

It smelled of old blood.

It smelled of regret.

It was the scent of things that had once been beautiful but had been allowed to decay and fester.

It was the smell of opportunities wasted, of love rejected, of truth ignored.

It filled my consciousness, making me want to wretch, but I had no stomach to empty.

I landed on a surface that felt like ash.

I tried to stand, but the gravity here was immense.

It was the weight of my own sins pressing me down.

I looked around, desperate to find a landmark, a face, anything familiar.

But the darkness was absolute.

I was in a place of total isolation.

In Islam, we place great emphasis on the um the community.

We pray together.

We fast together.

We stand shoulderto-shoulder in the mosque.

But here there was no community.

Hell is the ultimate solitude.

It is being locked inside the prison of your own self forever.

I began to hear sounds.

At first, it was a low hum like the sound of a distant swarm of locusts.

But as I listened, I realized it was not insects.

It was voices.

Millions of voices.

They were not screaming in physical pain.

They were moaning in regret.

It was a chorus of if only.

If only I had listened.

If only I had forgiven.

If only I had sought the truth.

The sound was deafening.

Yet it felt like it was coming from inside my own head.

It was the sound of humanity realizing too late that they had bet on the wrong things.

Then out of the darkness, a book appeared before me.

It was not a book of paper and ink.

It was a book of light, but a cold revealing light.

In our tradition, we believe in the Kiran Kban, the angels who record our good and bad deeds.

I had always taken comfort in this.

I thought my book would be filled with my servants, my fwas, my prayers, my charity.

I thought the scale would tip in my favor.

The book opened and I watched in horror as the pages turned.

It did not show my public life.

It did not show the Grand Ayatollah standing on the pulpit in calm, mesmerizing the crowds with his eloquence.

It showed my heart.

It showed the secret moments.

It showed the pride I felt when men kissed my hand.

It showed the arrogance I felt when I judged those who were less religious than me.

It showed the hatred I harbored for the enemies of the regime.

It showed the indifference I felt when I signed orders that destroyed families.

I saw a moment from 20 years ago.

A young student had come to me with a question about the Quran, a genuine doubt.

Instead of guiding him with love, I had crushed him with my authority.

I had shamed him in front of his peers.

I saw the pain in that boy’s heart.

A pain I had caused.

And in this place, I felt that pain as if it were my own.

I saw the face of a woman whose husband had been imprisoned because of a ruling I supported.

I saw her tears.

I saw her children going hungry.

I had justified it as protecting the faith.

But the book showed it for what it truly was.

Cruelty disguised as piety.

Page after page, my good deeds were revealed to be hollow.

My prayers were performed to be seen by men.

My fasting was done to prove my discipline.

My charity was given to buy influence.

The ink of my life was not faith.

It was ego.

I realized with a terrifying clarity that I had spent my life building a monument to myself and calling it Islam.

I screamed into the darkness.

But I am a sed.

I am a descendant of the prophet.

Does my blood count for nothing? The darkness seemed to laugh.

A voice cold and metallic echoed in my mind.

Blood of the earth stays on the earth.

here only the blood of the lamb has value and you do not have it.

I did not understand what that meant.

The lamb.

I was a scholar of Islam, not Christianity.

But the message was clear.

My lineage, my DNA, my family tree, it was all dust.

It could not purchase my safety here.

The Sharia law, the complex legal system I had mastered was useless.

The law can only condemn.

it cannot save.

I was standing before a judge and I had no defense attorney.

I was guilty and the punishment was not just physical torture.

It was this.

It was seeing the truth of who I was.

Stripped of all the robes and titles and realizing that I was bankrupt.

The cold intensified.

It began to freeze my thoughts.

I felt my identity slipping away.

I was becoming part of the gray background.

This was the second death, the death of the soul.

I knew with a certainty that goes beyond logic that I was damned.

I was going to stay in this place of regret and ice forever.

There was no exit.

There was no appeal.

The system I had trusted had failed me completely.

I fell to my knees in the ash.

I stopped trying to justify myself.

I stopped trying to recite verses.

I stopped trying to be the grand ayatollah.

For the first time in my life, I was completely honest.

I was a broken, sinful old man who had led millions astray.

I buried my face in my hands and wept.

Not tears of water, but tears of the soul.

I gave up.

I accepted my fate.

And it was in that moment of total surrender.

In that moment of absolute hopelessness that the atmosphere began to change.

Before I tell you what happened next, before I describe the light that broke into the deepest darkness, I want to ask you a question.

What are you trusting in? Are you trusting in your good deeds? Are you trusting in your religious heritage? Are you trusting that you are a good person? I am here to tell you that in the dark, none of that matters.

If a grand ayatollah, a man who dedicated every waking hour to religion, found himself empty-handed, what chance do you have on your own? You need to hear the next part of this testimony.

You need to know who walked into that hell to find me because he is the only one who can walk into your darkness and pull you out.

Please verify that you are subscribed to the channel.

Hit the notification bell.

You do not want to miss the encounter that changes everything.

This is not just my story.

It is the road map for your own rescue.

The cold was biting harder now.

The voices of regret were getting louder.

I closed my spiritual eyes, waiting for the end.

I waited for the demons to come and drag me away.

But instead of a demon, something else arrived.

It started as a pin prick of light in the distance.

a tiny white star in the black void.

It shouldn’t have been there.

Darkness was supposed to be absolute, but the star grew.

It came closer.

It was moving with a speed and a purpose that defied the laws of this place.

The darkness recoiled from it.

The oily shadows hissed and pulled back.

The cold began to retreat.

As the light approached, I felt something I had not felt since I was a child in my mother’s arms.

I felt warmth.

I felt safety.

I felt dot dot dot loved.

Who dares to bring love into hell? I wondered, who has the authority to break the laws of the afterlife? The light expanded until it filled my vision.

It was blinding, yet it did not hurt my eyes.

It was brighter than the sun over the desert of Yaz, brighter than a thousand search lights.

And in the center of that light, a figure began to emerge, a man.

He was not wearing the robes of a mulla.

He was not wearing the armor of a warrior.

He was dressed in simple white garments that seemed to be woven from the light itself.

[snorts] I looked up, trembling.

I expected to see judgment in his eyes.

I expected him to read from the book of my sins and confirm my sentence.

But when I looked into his face, I did not see anger.

I did not see hate.

I saw eyes that looked like flames of fire.

Yet they held an ocean of compassion.

He stood over me, the grand Ayatollah who had persecuted his followers, the man who had called his book corrupted, the leader who had vowed to wipe his name from Iran.

He stood over me, and the darkness fled from his presence.

He spoke and his voice was like the sound of rushing waters, like the sound of thunder yet intimate as a whisper in the ear.

He did not ask me about my theology.

He did not ask me about my politics.

He asked me one question that shattered the remaining fragments of my pride.

He said, “Hassan, why do you build a kingdom of dust when I have prepared a kingdom of life for you?” I tried to speak.

I wanted to ask who are you? But I knew my soul knew him instantly.

This was not a prophet.

A prophet is a messenger.

This man was the message itself.

This was the one the Quran calls al-Masi.

This was Jesus.

But he was not just the Jesus of the history books.

He was the Lord of the light.

He was the master of the realm of death.

The contrast was un I was kneeling in the ash of that dark place.

My head bowed, waiting for the final blow.

I had accepted my fate.

I knew that based on the laws of justice, based on the very laws I had spent my life studying and enforcing, I deserve to be there.

I was a man who had claimed to speak for God.

Yet, I did not know him.

I was a shepherd who had led the sheep off a cliff.

There was no defense argument left in my mind.

The silence of the void was deafening, pressing against my eardrums like the weight of an ocean.

But then the atmosphere began to shift.

It started as a subtle vibration in the ground beneath my knees.

The ash, which had been cold and lifeless, began to tremble, and then came the light.

It did not burst forth like an explosion.

It arrived like the dawn.

But it was a dawn unlike anything ever seen on Earth.

On Earth, light reveals the surface of things.

It shows you the color of a wall or the shape of a tree.

But this light was different.

As it touched me, it did not just illuminate my skin.

It illuminated my interior.

It passed through my body as if I were made of glass.

It touched the frozen places of my soul.

It touched the memories of my childhood, the hardened scars of my political battles, the secret shamus I had buried deep within my heart.

The darkness which had seemed so invincible just moments ago reacted with terror.

I could hear the shadows hissing.

The cold, oily presence that had been trying to suffocate me recoiled, shrinking back into the corners of the abyss.

The chorus of moaning voices, the millions of souls in regret, suddenly fell silent.

It was as if the entire realm of death was holding its breath in the presence of a superior authority.

I lifted my head, shielding my eyes with my trembling hands.

Standing before me, suspended in the void, was the source of the light.

He was a man.

But to call him a man is like calling the sun a candle.

He was human.

Yes, but he was humanity glorified.

He was dressed in a robe that seemed to be woven from the fabric of the stars, seamlessly white, radiating a brilliance that pulsed with a living rhythm.

It was not a static white.

It was a white that contained every color of the spectrum, dancing and flowing like liquid diamond.

I tried to look at his face.

In my culture, in the Shia tradition, we have paintings of the prophets.

We depict them with veils over their faces because their holiness is too great to behold.

But this man wore no veil.

His face was uncovered, and it was the most terrifying and beautiful thing I had ever seen.

His eyes, I must speak of his eyes.

They were like flames of fire, yet they held no malice.

They were burning with an intensity that could melt stone.

But it was not the fire of anger.

It was the fire of love.

A love so fierce, so absolute that it burned away everything that was false.

When he looked at me, I felt completely known.

There was no hiding.

He saw the fatwas I had signed.

He saw the arrogance in my heart.

He saw the doubts I had suppressed.

He saw it all.

And yet he did not look away.

I braced myself.

I expected him to speak the words of condemnation.

I expected him to say, “Depart from me, you worker of iniquity.

” I expected him to list my crimes against his people.

I prepared myself for the pain, but he did not strike me.

He did not shout.

He stepped closer.

He lowered himself, coming down to my level in the ash.

And he reached out a hand.

As his hand came into focus, I saw something that made my breath catch in my throat.

There was a scar on his wrist, a deep jagged mark where a spike had once been driven through flesh and bone.

I looked at his feet, the same scars.

I was a scholar of religion.

I knew the stories.

The Quran teaches that Jesus Isa al-Mi was not crucified.

It teaches that Allah rescued him and put someone else in his place, perhaps Judas, to die on the cross.

We are taught that God would never allow his prophet to suffer such a shameful death.

But here in the reality of the afterlife, the scars were the first thing I saw.

They were not ugly.

They were shining.

They were the badges of his authority.

They were the proof of the price he had paid.

The theology of 40 years crumbled in a single second.

The books I had written, the lectures I had given, the arguments I had won, they all turned to dust in the presence of those scars.

He had died.

He had been crucified.

And he had risen.

The evidence was reaching out to touch my shoulder.

He spoke.

His voice was like the sound of many waters, deep and resonant, vibrating through every atom of my spiritual body.

He did not speak in Arabic or Farsy or English.

He spoke in a language that bypassed my ears and went straight to my understanding.

It was the language of the heart.

Hassan, he said.

He knew my name.

He did not call me Ayatollah.

He did not call me Sed.

He called me by the name my mother gave me.

Hassan, look at me.

I forced myself to look up into those burning eyes.

You have spent your life building a ladder to God, he said gently.

You built it with your laws.

You built it with your rituals.

You built it with your lineage.

But the latter does not reach Hassan.

It never has.

Tears began to stream down my face.

I knew he was right.

I had felt the gap all my life.

No matter how much I prayed, no matter how much I fasted, the gap between me and the holiness of God never closed.

I had just learned to ignore it.

I am not the ladder,” he continued.

“I am the bridge, and I am the one who crossed the bridge to find you.

” He took my hand.

His grip was firm and warm, and the moment his skin touched mine, a shock wave of energy coursed through me.

It was not like the electricity of the defibrillator in the hospital.

That was a cold, violent energy.

This was a warm living current.

It felt like liquid gold pouring into my veins.

Where the light touched me, the shame vanished.

The heavy cloak of my sins, the weight of the blood I had spilled, the burden of the lies I had told, it all evaporated like mist in the sunlight.

I felt a sensation I had never experienced in 70 years of life.

I felt clean.

In Islam, we have a concept called tahara, ritual purity.

We wash our hands, our feet, our faces before we pray.

We are obsessed with being clean on the outside.

But inside, inside we are full of dead men’s bones.

But this man, this Jesus, he was washing me from the inside out.

He was scrubbing the stain of sin from my very soul.

Lord, I whispered.

The word came out instinctively.

Who are you? He smiled.

And the joy in that smile was brighter than the light of his robes.

I am the way, the truth, and the life.

No one comes to the father except through me.

I am the alpha and the omega.

I am the one who is dead.

And behold, I am alive forever more.

He pulled me up.

I stood on my feet, but I was no longer standing in the ash of hell.

The scene around us began to change.

The darkness fled away completely, replaced by a landscape of indescribable beauty.

I saw colors that do not exist on Earth.

I heard music that was woven into the atmosphere, a harmony of millions of voices singing, “Holy, holy, holy.

” But he did not let me stay in that place of glory.

He held my shoulders and looked deep into my eyes.

His expression became serious, urgent.

Hassan, I am sending you back.

My heart sank.

Back.

Back to the pain.

Back to the hospital.

Back to the regime that wanted to kill me.

Lord, please, I begged.

Do not send me back.

Let me stay here.

Let me stay in the light.

You must go back, he said firmly.

Because there are millions like you.

Millions who are trapped in the darkness of the law thinking they are serving God.

They are my sheep, but they have no shepherd.

They are wandering on the edge of the cliff.

You must go back and tell them what you have seen.

You must tell them that the bridge exists.

He paused, and his gaze seemed to penetrate through time and space.

And you must warn them, he said.

The time is short.

The shadows are lengthening over your nation.

There is a storm coming, Assan.

A storm that will shake the foundations of the earth.

But in the middle of the storm, I am planting my throne.

I want to pause here for a moment.

I know that what I am describing sounds impossible to some of you.

I know that there are skeptics watching this who think this is just a hallucination of a dying brain.

But hallucinations are chaotic.

Hallucinations are confusing.

This was clearer than the reality I am sitting in right now.

The love I felt was more real than the air I am breathing.

And the message he gave me next was too specific, too detailed to be a dream.

Before we move to the prophecy, I have to ask you, have you ever felt that gap? That distance between you and God that no amount of religion can close.

You go to church or you go to the mosque or you try to be a good person.

But at night when you are alone, you know something is missing.

You know you are not clean.

That is because you are trying to build a ladder.

Stop building.

Look for the bridge.

The man of light is reaching out to you right now through the screen.

He is not asking you to become religious.

He is asking you to let him wash you.

If you are ready to stop building and start crossing, I want you to take a small step of faith.

Subscribe to this channel.

Join this community of believers who are seeking the truth.

We are going to explore the depths of this revelation together.

Do not walk this journey alone.

Click the button and let’s move forward to the vision that changed the destiny of a nation.

Jesus held my hand tighter.

Look, he said, look at the future of your land.

And then the realm of glory faded and I was pulled into a vision.

I was no longer in heaven and I was not yet back in my body.

I was suspended in the sky looking down at the earth.

But it was not the earth of 2024.

It was the future.

I found myself hovering high above the city of Terron.

It was night.

The city lights spread out like a vast glittering spiderweb beneath me.

I recognized the landmarks.

I saw the Milid Tower piercing the sky like a needle.

I saw the Azadi Tower, the symbol of freedom that had seen so little freedom in the last 40 years.

I saw the heavy traffic clogging the Hemmed Expressway, red taillights streaming like arteries of blood.

The air was thick with heat.

It was summer, and I knew with the intuitive knowledge that comes in a vision that it was the month of Ramadan.

I could feel the spiritual hunger rising from the city.

Millions of people had been fasting all day, denying their bodies food and water, seeking to please a god who felt distant and angry.

The mosques were full for the taroy prayers.

The loudspeakers were broadcasting the recitation of the Quran, the melodic Arabic echoing off the concrete buildings.

But beneath the surface of piety, I saw a seething unrest.

I saw the people of Iran not as a political entity but as souls and their souls were groaning.

They were tired, tired of the oppression, tired of the corruption, tired of the lies told in the name of religion.

The spiritual atmosphere was like a dry forest waiting for a single spark.

Jesus stood beside me in the air.

He pointed down at a specific location in the heart of the city.

My eyes followed his finger.

He was pointing to the Musa mosque.

I knew this place well.

It was a center of hardline ideology.

A place where sermons against the West and against Christianity were preached every Friday with venomous hatred.

Watch, he said.

As I watched, the sky above Tehran began to change.

The stars seemed to be pushed aside.

A tear appeared in the fabric of the night sky directly above the mosque.

It was not a physical tear.

It was a spiritual opening.

And out of this opening, a sword descended.

This was not a sword of steel.

It was a sword of pure blinding light.

It was enormous, reaching from the heavens down to the rooftops.

It pulsed with the same energy I had seen in the robes of Jesus.

It was beautiful, but it was also terrifying.

It was the sword of truth.

It did not descend to kill the people.

It descended to judge the system.

I watched as the tip of the sword touched the dome of the Musa Mosque.

There was no explosion.

There was no fire.

Instead, a shock wave of light rippled out from the point of impact.

It moved through the city like a tsunami.

Where the wave touched, the chains of darkness were shattered.

I saw into the homes of the people.

I saw a young woman in her bedroom, secretly reading a PDF of the Bible on her phone, terrified of being caught.

As the wave of light passed over her house, fear vanished from her face.

She stood up, tears streaming down her cheeks, filled with a sudden supernatural boldness.

I saw a Revolutionary Guard commander sitting in his office, planning a raid on a house church.

As the light hit him, he fell out of his chair.

He curled up on the floor, weeping, clutching his chest, overwhelmed by a sudden conviction of sin and a vision of the man in white.

I saw the prisons, Evan prison, the notorious dungeon where so many believers are held.

The light penetrated the thick concrete walls.

I heard the prisoners singing.

Not songs of mourning, but songs of victory.

The guards were paralyzed, unable to silence them.

Jesus spoke to me again in 2026.

I am setting my throne in Ilum.

Elilum, the ancient name for the land of Iran.

At that moment, I did not understand the full significance of that word.

But later, after I woke up, after I had escaped, I opened the Bible for the first time.

I searched for the word Elum, and what I found made my blood run cold.

It confirmed everything I had seen.

I want to read this to you.

This is not my word.

This is the word of God written thousands of years ago by the prophet Jeremir.

In Jeremir 49:38, the Lord says, “I will set my throne in Elim and destroy her king and her officials, declares the Lord.

” Think about that.

I will set my throne.

A throne represents government.

It represents authority.

God is saying that he is going to establish his government directly in Iran.

He is not going to do it through a political revolution.

He is not going to do it through a foreign invasion.

He is going to do it by establishing his throne in the hearts of the people.

And look at the second part of the verse and destroy her king and her officials.

In the vision, I saw the structure of the Islamic Republic crumbling, not by bombs, but by irrelevance.

As the people’s hearts turned to Jesus, the power of the Ayatollas simply evaporated.

Their authority is based on fear.

When the people no longer fear them, when the people fear God more than they fear the regime, the regime has no power left.

I saw the mosques emptying out not because of a law but because the spirit of God had moved elsewhere.

I saw house churches multiplying so fast that they could not be counted.

I saw a revival that started in Thran and spread like wildfire to Mashad to Isvahan to Shiraz and then spilled over the borders into Afghanistan and Iraq.

This is the warning I brought back.

The year 2026 will mark a turning point.

It will be a year of great shaking for those who cling to the old power.

For the kings and officials who use religion to oppress, it will be a year of destruction.

Their secrets will be exposed.

Their power will be broken.

But for the people of Iran and for everyone who is praying for this nation, it will be the year of the sword of light.

It will be the beginning of the greatest spiritual harvest the Middle East has ever seen.

The vision shifted.

I saw the date clearly in my mind.

A night in Ramadan 2026.

The specifics of the date were burned into my memory.

A deadline that is approaching day by day.

I looked at Jesus.

Lord, I asked, why are you showing me this? Why not show it to a Christian pastor? Why show it to me an enemy? He looked at me with that same intense love.

Because no one can testify to the light like a man who has lived in the deepest darkness.

You were Saul of Tarsus.

Now you are Paul.

Go and suffer for my name.

The vision began to fade.

The lights of Terran blurred.

The sensation of the cold hospital room began to return.

I felt the heavy crushing weight of my physical body.

I was being squeezed back into the vessel of clay.

“Wait,” I cried out.

“I am not ready.

” “Remember,” his voice echoed, growing fainter, but still powerful.

“Jeremir, 49, the throne in Elum.

It is coming.

” And then, with a gasp that sounded like a thunderclap in the silent hospital room, I slammed back into my body.

This brings us to a critical moment in this video.

You have heard the vision.

You have heard the scripture.

Jeremiair 49-38 is not just ink on a page.

It is a geopolitical and spiritual road map for the next few years.

We are watching the headlines worried about nuclear deals and sanctions.

But God is working on a different timeline.

He is preparing a spiritual coup.

If you are a believer, I am asking you to mark your calendars.

I am asking you to start praying for Iran, specifically for the fulfillment of Jeremier 49.

Pray for the protection of the believers who will be the leaders of this revival.

And if you are watching this and you are fearful, fearful of wars, fearful of the future, let this vision give you peace.

The same God who can walk into hell to save a sinner is the same God who controls the destiny of nations.

He is setting his throne.

And when his throne is established, no dictator can stand.

But my story does not end with waking up.

In fact, the most dangerous part of my journey was just beginning.

Because when I opened my eyes in that hospital room, I was no longer the grand Ayatollah.

I was a witness to the resurrection.

And in the Islamic Republic of Iran, that is a crime punishable by death.

How does a man who is surrounded by guards, hooked up to machines, and watched by the intelligence services escape? The regime says it is impossible.

They say I must have had help from the CIA or the MSAD.

But they are wrong.

I had help, but it came from a much higher source.

In the next section, I am going to reveal the details of my escape that I have never shared publicly before.

I am going to tell you about the coincidences that happened that night, the power outage, the guard who fell asleep, the mysterious nurse who knew my name.

You need to hear this because it proves that when God gives you a mission, he also provides the exit strategy.

But before we get there, help us spread this warning.

This video is a digital missionary.

Every time you like and share, you are pushing this prophecy in front of someone who needs to hear it.

Maybe someone in Iran using a VPN.

Maybe someone who is searching for the truth.

Be a part of this mission.

Share the warning.

Now, let me tell you how I walked out of a maximum security hospital without being seen.

The collision with my physical body was violent.

One moment I was floating in the serene, multi-dimensional reality of heaven, listening to the voice of Jesus.

The next I was slammed back into a cage of bone and heavy flesh.

The air in my lungs burned.

The weight of gravity felt crushing as if a mountain had been placed on my chest.

I gasped, a jagged, desperate sound that tore through the silence of the hospital room.

My eyes flew open.

The blinding light of glory was gone, replaced by the sterile, flickering fluorescent lights of the intensive care unit.

The smell of roses and holiness was replaced by the stinging scent of bleach and sickness.

I was back.

Panic surged through me instantly.

Not the panic of death, but the panic of life.

I remembered exactly where I was.

I remembered who I was in this world.

I was not just a patient.

I was a prisoner, a high value target, a man marked for death by the very regime I had served.

I tried to sit up, but my muscles were atrophied and weak.

The monitors around me began to beep frantically, alerting the staff to the sudden spike in my heart rate.

I looked toward the door.

Through the glass panel, I could see them.

Two members of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Course, IRGC, elite unit.

They were not sleeping.

They were standing guard.

A K47s slung over their shoulders, staring right at my room.

The realization hit me like a physical blow.

I have seen the truth, but I’m going to die before I can tell anyone.

The door burst open.

A team of doctors rushed in, followed closely by the guards.

The lead doctor looked at the monitors, then at me, his eyes wide with disbelief.

He’s back, he whispered.

It’s impossible.

He was dot dot dot.

He was gone.

The guard stepped forward, pushing the doctor aside.

One of them, a man with cold, dead eyes, leaned over my bed.

So, he sneered.

The Grand Ayatollah decides to rejoin us.

The Supreme Leader would be very interested to hear this.

He reached for his radio.

I knew what that call meant.

Once the intelligence agency knew I was awake and coherent, I would be transferred, not to a recovery room, but to Evan prison to ward 209, to the interrogation cells where men enter but never leave.

They would want to know why I refused to sign the Fatwa.

They would want to know who I was working with.

And when they found out I had met Jesus dot dot, the torture would be unimaginable.

I closed my eyes and prayed.

Not the formal prayer of salot, but a desperate cry to the man in white.

Lord, you sent me back.

You said, “I have a mission.

Do not let me die here in this bed.

You are the god of the impossible.

Show me the way out.

” The hours that followed were a blur of medical tests and interrogations.

I played the part of a confused, recovering old man.

I pretended I couldn’t speak well.

I pretended my memory was foggy.

But inside, my mind was racing, calculating, looking for an exit.

There was none.

The room was on the fourth floor.

The window was sealed.

The door was guarded 24/7s.

Night fell over to run.

The hospital quieted down, but the guards remained vigilant.

They operated on shifts.

There was no gap in their security.

I lay in the dark, listening to the rhythm of their boots in the hallway.

Click, clack, click, click, clack.

And then the first miracle happened.

It was exactly 300 a.

m.

, the darkest part of the night.

Suddenly, the hum of the air conditioning died.

The lights in the hallway flickered and went black.

The monitors in my room silenced.

A power outage.

In Thran, power outages are not uncommon due to the failing infrastructure.

But in a military hospital, in the VIP wing, it was unheard of.

The backup generators should have kicked instantly, but they didn’t.

Silence descended on the ward.

I heard the guards shouting in Farsy, confusion in their voices.

What is happening? Get the flashlights.

Check the perimeter.

In that chaos of darkness, my door opened.

It didn’t open with the heavy sound of a boot kicking it.

It opened softly, silently.

A figure slipped into the room.

It was a nurse.

I had not seen him before during the day shifts.

He was wearing a surgical mask and a cap, his face almost completely hidden.

He moved with a precision that [clears throat] was not medical.

It was tactical.

He came to the side of my bed.

I tensed, expecting an assassin.

Was this how the regime would do it? A needle in the dark during a blackout.

The nurse leaned down, his voice a barely audible whisper.

Hassan, he said, my heart stopped.

Only my family called me Hassan.

To everyone else, I was your excellency or Ayatollah.

Do not be afraid, the man whispered.

The one who sent you back has also arranged your departure.

Can you walk? I nodded, adrenaline flooding my system, overriding the weakness in my legs.

Good.

Put these on.

Quickly, he handed me a bundle.

It was a janitor’s uniform, rough blue cotton, and a pair of worn out shoes.

I stripped off my hospital gown, my hands shaking.

The nurse helped me, his movements efficient and calm.

He placed a surgical mask over my face and handed me a mop bucket that he had brought in.

The backup generators have been layed, he said, a hint of a smile in his voice.

You have exactly 8 minutes before the power returns.

We must move now.

He took my arm and led me to the door.

What about the guards? I hissed.

Walk past them, he said.

Do not look at them.

Look at the floor.

Trust.

We stepped out into the hallway.

It was pitch black, illuminated only by the faint glow of the city lights coming through the windows at the far end.

The guards were there.

They had flashlights now, beams of light cutting through the darkness.

My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

This is suicide, I thought.

They will see us.

We walked right toward them.

The nurse was pushing a cart.

I was carrying them up.

One of the guards shown his flashlight directly at us.

The beam hit my face.

I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the shout, waiting for the bullet.

Hey, you.

The guard barked.

I froze.

A generator room.

Is maintenance working on it? He shouted.

The nurse beside me answered, his voice calm, bored even.

Yes, sir.

We are bringing supplies to the basement.

It’s a blown transformer.

The guard grunted and lowered the flashlight.

Hurry up.

It’s getting hot in here.

He waved us through.

He waved us through.

I could not believe it.

I was the most recognizable face in the hospital.

My picture had been on the news.

Even with a mask, my eyes, my height, dot dot dot, he should have known.

But it was as if a veil had been placed over his eyes.

As scripture says, seeing they do not see.

God had blinded the enemy.

We walked past them, turned the corner, and entered the service elevator.

The nurse used a key to activate it.

As the doors closed, I slumped against the wall, gasping for air.

“Who are you?” I asked the man.

“Are you with the resistance?” “Are you Msad?” He pulled down his mask.

He had a kind face, ordinary, yet there was something in his eyes that reminded me of the man in white.

“I a brother,” he said.

“There are more of us than you think, Hassan.

even inside the walls of the regime.

Jesus has his people everywhere.

He didn’t say anything else.

The elevator opened in the loading dock of the basement.

A nondescript van was waiting.

Engine running.

The back doors opened.

I climbed in.

The nurse did not follow.

He nodded to me once, then turned and walked back into the hospital, back into the lion’s den.

I never saw him again.

I do not know his name.

I do not know if he was a man or an angel, but I know he was the answer to the prayer I prayed in that hospital bed.

The van sped out of Tehran, merging into the chaotic night traffic.

I lay in the back, covered by blankets, listening to the sounds of the city I had once ruled passing by.

We drove for hours.

I was handed off from one vehicle to another, from one silent driver to the next.

It was an underground railroad of believers, a network of secret Christians risking their lives to smuggle a former persecutor to safety.

We reached the mountains near the border of Turkey 3 days later.

The journey was grueling.

We had to hike through snow-covered passes that smugglers used to transport goods.

My body was still weak from the coma, but my spirit was burning with a supernatural strength.

Every step was a battle.

Every checkpoint we bypassed was a miracle.

There was a moment right at the borderline.

We were high up in the Zagris Mountains.

The air was thin and freezing.

The sun was rising over Iran behind me.

I stopped and turned back to look at my homeland one last time.

I saw the rugged peaks.

I saw the distant haze of the cities.

I thought of my family whom I might never see again.

I thought of the millions of people down there, waking up to the call to prayer, owing down to a silence that would never answer them.

I felt a deepwrenching pain in my chest.

I loved my country.

I loved my people.

Leaving was like tearing off a limb.

But then I remembered the vision.

I remembered the sword of light touching the dome of the mosque.

I remembered the promise.

I will set my throne in Elim.

I was not leaving Iran forever.

I was leaving to prepare for its return.

I was leaving to be the voice crying in the wilderness.

I raised my hand toward the land of Persia, and I spoke the words of the prophecy out loud, letting the wind carry them back to Theron.

Your king is coming, I whispered.

The shadows are long, but the morning is here.

I turned my back on the Islamic Republic and took the step across the border into freedom.

Now you have heard the story.

You have heard about the death, the judgment, the rescue, and the escape.

The regime in Iran has spent millions of dollars trying to discredit the story.

They have released fake reports saying I died of a heart attack.

They have doctorred photos.

They have threatened my family.

They say that my escape was a CIA operation.

They say I am a Western spy.

But you have heard the truth details today.

No CI agent could blind the eyes of a revolutionary guard.

No foreign government could orchestrate a power outage at the exact second I needed it.

This escape wasn’t politics.

It was providence.

And this brings me to you watching this video right now.

Why did God go to such lengths to save one old man? Why the vision? Why the miracles? It is because the warning is urgent.

The year 2026 is not far away.

The events I saw are already being set in motion in the spiritual realm.

God preserved my life so that I could look into this camera and tell you, get ready.

If you have been watching this and feeling is stirring in your heart, that is not an accident.

That is the Holy Spirit confirming the truth of this testimony.

You might be feeling fear, but I want you to replace that fear with faith.

The same God who blinded the guards and opened the doors for me is the God who watches over you.

We are approaching the end of this video and I have one final crucial thing to do with you.

I want to pray for you specifically.

I want to pray a prayer of protection over your family and your future, sealing you against the shaking that is coming.

But before we do that, I have a request.

This testimony is a seed.

It needs to be planted.

If you believe that the world needs to know about the 2026 waring, if you believe that the people of Iran deserve to know their true king, please share this video.

Send it to your pastor.

Send it to your friends.

Post it on your social media.

Become a digital missionary with me.

And if you want to be part of the prayer movement for Iran, if you want to be notified when the next prophetic update is released, make sure you are subscribed, we are building an army of intercessors.

Are you in? Now, prepare your heart.

In the final section, I am going to speak a blessing over you that comes directly from the throne room I visited.

Let’s finish this together.

Before we close this video, I want you to take a moment and just breathe.

We have traveled a long way together in the last hour and a half.

We have gone from the corridors of power in Tran to the cold silence of a hospital morg.

We have descended into the darkness of hell and stood in the blinding light of heaven.

We have seen a vision of the future that shakes the foundations of geopolitics.

And we have walked out of a guarded hospital through a series of miracles that defy explanation.

It is a lot to process.

I know.

But I want to bring it all back to one simple question.

Why did God allow Grand Ayota Tabatabai to see all of this? Why did he send him back? It wasn’t just to save one man.

And it wasn’t just to give us a sensational story to talk about on YouTube.

He was sent back for you.

God pulled back the curtain of eternity because he wants you to know that he is in control.

We look at the news.

We look at Iran.

We look at the wars and rumors of wars and it is easy to feel afraid.

It is easy to feel like the world is spinning into chaos.

But the vision of 2026 tells us a different story.

It tells us that while the kings of the earth plot and plan, the king of kings is setting his throne.

It tells us that the darkness is not winning.

It is simply the backdrop for the greatest display of light the world has ever seen.

The message of 2026 is not a message of doom.

It is a message of harvest.

The sword of light is not coming to destroy the people of Iran.

It is coming to cut their chains.

And that same sword can cut the chains in your life too.

Remember the gap we talked about, the gap between religion and relationship, the gap that Hassan tried to fill with 40 years of striving.

That gap is closed.

The bridge has been built.

You do not have to wonder where you stand with God.

You do not have to fear the cold darkness of the afterlife.

The man in white is reaching out to you right now with the same hand that pulled the grand ayatollah out of the pit.

So what should you do with this information? First, do not let this just be content that you consume and forget.

Let it change the way you pray.

Tonight, when you pray, do not pray with fear.

Pray with the confidence of someone who knows the end of the story.

Pray for Iran.

Pray for the underground church.

Pray for the fulfillment of Jeremier 49.

Your prayers are the fuel for this revival.

Second, if this video has touched your heart, if you felt the Holy Spirit moving while you listened, I want to ask you to do something specific.

I want you to become a digital missionary.

The algorithm does not know the difference between a cat video and a prophetic warning, but you do.

When you hit the like button, when you share this with a friend, you are helping to bypass the censorship.

You are helping to get this warning in front of someone who needs hope.

And if you want to stay connected to this story, if you want to know what happens next as we approach 2026, make sure you’re subscribed to the channel.

We are going to continue tracking these events.

We are going to bring you more testimonies, more prophetic updates, and more truth that the world tries to hide.

Join this community.

Be part of the watchmen on the wall.

Now, I promised you a prayer.

A prayer of protection and peace.

I want you to close your eyes wherever you are.

If you are driving, just listen, but if you can stop for a moment.

Let’s seal this word in your spirit.

Father, in the name of Jesus, the name above every name, I thank you for the life of my brother Hassan.

Thank you for rescuing him from the darkness.

And Lord, I thank you for every person listening to my voice right now.

I pray a covering of protection over them.

As the world shakes, let them stand on the solid rock.

I plead the blood of Jesus over their homes, their families, and their minds.

When fear tries to knock on their door, let faith answer.

Give them eyes to see your throne established in the midst of the chaos.

Lord, we lift up Iran to you.

We declare Jeremiair 49 over that nation.

Set your throne in Elilum.

Break the bow of the mighty.

Let the sword of light descend, not in judgment, but in salvation.

Let the revival that started in the secret places flood the streets.

And for anyone watching this who feels far from you, who feels the coldness of religion without relationship, I ask that you would walk into their room right now.

Show them your scars.

Show them your love.

Let them know that they are not alone.

We seal this warning and this hope in your name.

Amen.

Thank you for watching.

Thank you for listening.

Remember, the shadows may be long, but the light of the world has already overcome the darkness.

I’ll see you in the next video.