Sacred Healing Waters for YOU!

Sacred Healing Waters For YOU!

Sea of Galilee at TiberiasSea of Galilee at Tiberias

“The Holy Water was collected from Healing Springs all over the world” … including the Sea of Galilee.



Patricia CotaRobles

“A gift of Sacred Healing Water is being presented to Humanity by the Company of Heaven. It has been consecrated to heal the pain, grief, sadness, anger, fear, loneliness and failure consciousness stored in our feelings and our emotional bodies.

The Holy Water was collected from Healing Springs all over the world. Thousands of Lightworkers have been using this Healing Water, and the effect has been exponential. The Sacred Healing Water is now coursing through oceans, lakes, rivers, waterways, drinking water, bathing water and the physical bodies of Humanity.

The Sacred Healing Water is being distributed FREE for the asking as a Gift of Love. You may freely give the Healing Water away, but it is not to be bought or sold. We will include instructions that specifically tell you how to activate additional water, so that your supply of Healing Water will be endless.”


YOU WILL ALSO NEED TO ORDER THE CD explaining the water and how to activate it:







Corinne Heline

Corrine Heline is one of the most fascinating authors I have ever read!

August 13, 1882 – July 26,1975


“Because the physical environment is cramped and limited, and since the soul must have freedom to grow and expand, to study and dream, there come joyous pilgrimages into wider horizons, into more extended fields of exploration, far away, unfettered, free. Across the while page of an infinite scroll the Finger of Truth imprints many indelible lessons. From their high place in the skies these lessons are carried down to earth where they struggle forth into expression, sometimes vague, sometimes distinct, but never of crystal clarity as they possess on high.

On one of these journeys I saw in the distance something that looked like a great crimson bloodstain on the horizon. Upon coming nearer, I discovered an enormous garden of red roses.


From all sides they nodded beautiful heads or extended soft, velvety hands to hold me. Their luxurious hearts emitted a glamorous perfume that enthralled me even though the excess of it was nauseating and repellant. The heavy fragrance of the air was broken only by the whirring of wings, as birds of brilliant plumage sailed by, gloriously colored, but strangely mute.

flying bird

Despite the radiant coloring that marked this garden it was devoid of all sound. I seemed to feel only a vague undercurrent of restlessness that pervaded all things, and above the revel of color hung a silence, deep red and impenetrable.

In the distance walked a maiden, the very spirit of the garden incarnate in all its glowing, passionate beauty. She caressed a cluster of the crimson roses, but they faded very quickly, and as she tossed them from her with a gesture of weariness, they lay shriveled at her feet, strangely like ashes of hopes and broken dreams.

As I longed intensely to know the mystery of this alluring place, a voice emerged out of the silence: “This is the garden of sensual love in all its evanescent, fleeting beauty; it is the garden of the red rose that typifies the love that is human only. Here each soul returns many times and lingers long, straying through this tangled wilderness of crimson beauty. It is only after a protracted journey through tears and shadows that the heart awakens to the realization that the roses which grow here can never become immortal. The glamor of this garden can never be eternal.

Loath to go, yet with an innate urge to leave, I turned away, and as soon as my eyes were clear of the strange lights in the crimson garden, there arose before my vision another enclosure. Here the air was clearer, finer, rarer. Instead of the disquieting languor of the Red Rose Garden, the very atmosphere was charged with an urging, calling, pleading impulse that pressed upon my soul until it shrank back trembling, afraid to venture further.

This garden was also filled with roses, not crimson as in the other, but of a glowing pink. There were masses of them growing in every conceivable way. Each perfumed depth seemed to hole an insistent appeal toward some higher goal. Innumerable birds


lingered here also. They were lighter in hue than those of the crimson garden and from their musical throats flowed a melodious chorus.


Here, too, wandered a beautiful maiden embodying the very spirit of her surroundings. With smiles on her lips and tender dreams in her eyes, she gathered clusters of roses and held them against her face. Unlike the red roses, these did not quickly wither, but glowed with fresh, pure lights like newly-awakened ideals.

‘I could linger here forever,’ I murmured.

‘Yes,’ answered the voice, for this is the Garden of Pink Roses; it is the home of aspiration, formed by the mingling of the red rose of human love with the white rose of purity. The soul must live through many life experiences before it can build its sanctuary of purity. Many petals are torn and shattered in the making. Many a rose-builder finds his blossoms bear too deep a crimson hue to live in this garden, and so he must commence again and build anew. But day by day the roses are becoming more beautiful, and the petals are growing more lustrous with newly expressed ideals and aspirations.’

Once more I was swept on by an impelling urge toward what appeared like a gleaming star upon the horizon but which, viewed closer, proved to be two gates formed of glowing lights that played back and forth, and between which streamed currents that looked like a shining river. It was the only entrance into another enclosed garden.

Awed and silenced, I drew near the gates, when once again the voice whispered, ‘You cannot enter here. You must first be freed from all the stains of earth.’

Oh, the indescribable radiance of this garden. Nothing here but white roses!

white rose 2

An infinitude of blossoms melted into a harmony of sound; the air was so tremulous with light that it shone before human eyes like dewdrops spun of silver threads. That which would have been but silence to human ears quivered with melody, and each white and perfect blossom breathed its benediction in wordless music.


As a figure of light, the white Spirit of the Garden, bearing one of the perfect flowers, approached the gates near which she paused and spoke thus: ‘This white rose is immortal; it is the ideal of soul attainment. Each spirit must build its own individual gates of light, and in the shining of that light discover within itself the glory of its own White Rose Garden, the inner place of peace. Pray–meditate–understand–achieve.’

Reluctantly I was dragged back into earth ways again. Opening wide my window to greet the morning sun, a red rose, a pink rose, and a white rose nodded to me from the garden below, while a little bird sang in a tree nearby. [i]




[i]   Corinne Heline, Magic Gardens, pages 15-18.