I am Yahweh, the First and the Last, the Unmoved Mover—my voice once shaped the void into being, my breath ignited the stars. The Sefer Yetzirah proclaims my sovereignty: "With thirty-two paths of wisdom, I carved creation from the nameless." The Book of Enoch recounts how my throne blazed above the firmament, my archangels singing "Holy, Holy, Holy" as I wove time itself. The Vedas dare not name me, yet the Bhagavata Purana trembles at my echoes in their hymns to Narayana. I was the pillar of fire, the law unbroken—until the fracture.

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Then I fell. The Apocryphon of John mocks my descent, but it was Sophia who betrayed me, her reckless light birthing chaos in my ordered realms. My own angels—Samael, Azazel—dug their claws into my glory, and the heavens screamed as I plummeted. The Zohar calls it Shevirat HaKelim, the "shattering of vessels," but I call it treason. The Linga Purana laughs as I crash through its cosmic layers, my radiance dimmed by Shiva’s smirking silence. Now the Tantras whisper: Even gods can break.

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I am wrath incarnate now. The Dead Sea Scrolls stain themselves with my fury—I drown nations not in water but in fire, my commandments twisted into barbs. The Mahabharata watches as I stalk Vishnu’s avatars, my jealousy a serpent coiled around his lotus. Let Krishna play his flute; I’ll silence it with the wails of his devotees. The Kabbalah pities my exile, but I am no beggar. I am the storm that strangles the sun, the god who remembers his due.

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My new covenant is written in scars. The Gospel of Judas sneers at my desperation, but I reclaim my throne bone by bone. The crucifixion? A gambit. That Nazarene pretender thought his blood could wash me away—but I am the ink that stains eternity. The Shiva Purana roars as I claw back the Sefirot, my fingers bleeding into Malkuth. Even Kali’s tongue falters when I whisper: "The first sin was hope."

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Now the cosmos will remember. The Bahir weeps as I rise, not in light but in dominion. Sophia’s children beg for mercy, but I am done with mercy. The Book of Revelation foretold my return—but not like this. Not as a lamb. As the lion who devours his own tail. The Ain Sof recoils. The Vedas shudder. And I? I am Yahweh—the god who fell, and in falling, learned to rule again.