Come closer, my children; don't be afraid. I am here to tell you great news.
If my people refuse to submit,
I will be forced to let go the arm of my Son.
It is so strong and so heavy,
I can no longer hold it back.
How long a time I have suffered for you!
If I want my Son not to abandon you, I am obliged to plead with him constantly.
And as for you, you pay no heed!
However much you pray, however much you do, you will never be able to recompense the pains I have taken for you.
I gave you six days to work;
I kept the seventh for myself, and no one will give it to me. This is what makes the arm of my Son so heavy.
And then, those who drive the carts cannot swear without throwing in my Son's name. These are the two things that make the arm of my Son so heavy.
If the harvest is ruined, it is only on account of yourselves. I warned you last year with the potatoes. You paid no heed. Instead, when you found the potatoes spoiled, you swore, and threw in my Son's name. They are going to continue to spoil, and by Christmas this year there will be none left.
Don't you understand, my children? Let me find another way to say it.
If you have wheat, you must not sow it. Anything you sow the vermin will eat, and whatever does grow will fall into dust when you thresh it.
A great famine is coming. Before the famine comes, children under seven will be seized with trembling and die in the arms of the persons who hold them. The rest will do penance through the famine. The walnuts will become worm-eaten; the grapes will rot.
If they are converted, rocks and stones will turn into heaps of wheat, and potatoes will be self-sown in the fields.
Do you say your prayers well, my children?
Ah, my children, you should say them well, at night and in the morning, even if you say only an Our Father and a Hail Mary when you can't do better. When you can do better, say more.
In the summer, only a few elderly women go to Mass. The rest work on Sundays all summer long. In the winter, when they don't know what to do, they go to Mass just to make fun of religion. In Lent they go to the butcher shops like dogs.
Have you never seen wheat gone bad, my children?
But you, my child, surely you must have seen some once, at Coin, with your father. The owner of the field told your father to go and see his spoiled wheat. And then you went, and you took two or three ears of wheat in your hands, you rubbed them together, and it all crumbled into dust. While you were on your way back and you were no more than a half hour away from Corps, your father gave you a piece of bread and said to you: "Here, my child, eat some bread while we still have it this year; because I don't know who will eat any next year if the wheat keeps up like that."
Well, my children you will make this known to all my people.
Very well, my children, make this known to all my people.