O hark, amidst the crowd’s unsteady cry, A restless noise that stirreth not as true; Though voices thunder loud unto the sky, Their hollow tones no honest heart imbue. Bright signs aloft, and screens that pierce the night, Yet all this clamor whispereth amiss; For though they speak as if in truth and right, There dwelleth naught but shadowed artifice.
Methinks I taste the iron in the air, As though fair truth were buried ere its breath; Men stand divided, feigning righteous care, Like players bound unto a script of death. Each line rehearsed, each fury well arranged, A masquerade of passions falsely framed; Where rage is worn, yet purpose standeth changed, And truth itself by cunning hands is tamed.
They cry, “Choose thou a side!”—yet I perceive A cunning veil that cloaks their false intent; For shadows wear the faces men believe, And truth lies hidden where their gazes went. Their words go round in circles, tight and cold, To still the will and bind the tongue in place; Not strength they seek, nor courage fierce and bold, But silence dressed in virtue’s borrowed grace.
Yet hear me now—my voice shall not be stayed! I shall not sit whilst fate by hands is drawn; No quiet chain shall bind what I have made, Nor shall my truth be stolen ere the dawn. They tempt the soul to linger from the fight, To yield its voice beneath the cloak of night; But I am not their echo nor their sound, Nor shall my will by others’ schemes be bound.
For if I speak not, I am lost to time, Erased as though I ne’er had drawn a breath; Thus must I rise, though reason call it crime, And find my voice e’en in the face of death. Their voice is not mine own—I shall not feign, Nor stand as still whilst they the stage command; For truth, though scorched by fire and forged in pain, Yet lives where hearts refuse their last demand.
O mark me well—some glitter not as gold, Though clothed in light, their purpose dark remains; Sweet-sounding tongues may lead the meek and bold Astray from truth through soft, persuasive chains. Then test each word, and weigh what thou dost hear, For not all voices speak with honor’s breath; Discern the path, reject the whispered fear, And stand thy ground though silence threaten death.
What sense is this? What line may I pursue? Doth truth yet live, or hath it been undone? Are these fair words sincere—or stolen too, A hollow echo where all thought is none? Nay—I shall not be led by empty cries, Nor yield my mind to noise that clouds my head; For truth yet burns where steadfast courage lies, And I shall follow where its fire hath led.
So hear me now—I shall not silent be! Though shadows twist and counterfeit the light; For voice once claimed is born in liberty, And shall not fade nor vanish from the fight. If they should take my voice, they take my right— Yet still I stand, and still my words take flight.
The noise shall fade, yet I remain the same, More clear than e’er before within my soul; Not every voice deserveth trust or name, Yet mine endureth—steadfast, fierce, and whole.
So hear me now… For I shall ne’er be silent anymore.
Enter thou alone—yea, solitary pilgrim of the greening hour, whose coming is neither proclaimed by trumpet nor writ in any earthly ledger, yet known, it may be, in the quiet registries of heaven.
No trumpet named thee. No clerk set down thy birth. Yet on a dusk of March, when the last ash of winter smouldered low along the world’s black grate, there came unto thee a little bell-note out of the west, thin as a star in mist, like some far-off chime borne upon the emerald breath of Éire herself, and a hand unseen did turn the lock of Time.
Then wast thou borne, not by ship nor horse, but by remembrance— that old kingfisher of eternity, whose wings flash blue and are gone before a man can swear he saw them, even as truth itself, swift and vanishing, yet leaving its mark upon the soul.
First didst thou stand upon a cold strand of Britain, under a sky like beaten pewter. The sea bit hard. The gulls went crying as souls that have forgot their road. There stood Patrick, not yet saint but sorrow-marked, halried from the shore by raiders out of Ireland— Patrick, Roman-bred, with gentle hands not made for bondage. His name, like an ember in damp straw, had not yet kindled legend, though beneath that ash did lie a fire destined to green the world. He looked once backward toward his father’s house, then forward into grief, and neither shore had pity.
Six years thou sawest Patrick upon the mountain’s shoulder, a keeper of sheep among wet stones, bog-breath, and thorn. The dawns were pale as unbaked bread; the nights were iron; the wind was a thin priest forever shriving the heather. And there, where no man of comfort would willingly tarry, his soul was hammered bright upon affliction’s anvil, as clover unseen beneath the frost awaiteth its hour.
He kneeled among the sheepfold shadows and whispered, not loudly, but as one laying kindling in a dark place, “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” The words were small against the hills, yet the hills, methought, gave them room, as though the land itself inclined its ear. And thou, maiden-watcher of the turning years, didst perceive that the heart cast down may yet become a lantern, and that bondage, though cursed, may tutor a man to hear the footfall of God where ease had made him deaf.
Then the lock turned.
Thou camest into a dream of roads. The selfsame Patrick, escaped and weathered, stood upon another shore with home behind him— and before him the island that had once devoured his youth, now clothed in that deep and fateful green which would one day mantle the world in his remembrance. No sword he bore. No banner of revenge. Only a staff, a voice, and that strange courage which returns to the wound not to reopen it, but to heal where it was made.
Ireland lay before thee raw and green, its plains breathing mist like sleeping cattle, its oak-groves old with rumor, its kings ringed by poets, harpers, law-speakers, and fire. The torches in their halls shook gold upon shields; the mead smelt sweet; hounds lifted sleek heads from rushes sweetened with bruised herbs. And Patrick moved through this many-kingdomed land not as thunder doth, but as rain— patient, entering by root and roof, by speech and sign. Men say he used the shamrock to shadow forth mystery: three in one, and one not broken by the three, a humble green witness of divine wonder.
At Tara, in thy seeing, the dark before dawn hung thick as velvet in a king’s unpardoning chamber. Yet one taper held against the waste of night made all the dark seem overproud. Patrick spake unto chieftains who knew spear-law and clan-oath, and his speech was not the speech of conquerors. Rather it was a door set open in weather. In his mouth forgiveness took a shape so grave that vengeance seemed a child’s toy, gaudy and cracked.
And softly, as moss takes stone, there came another hidden word: “Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good.” So didst thou, daughter of time’s long threshold, perceive that power unruled by mercy rots in its own scabbard, but mercy doth make of memory a bridge, green and living across the broken places of men.
Then the lock turned.
Thou wert set amid the eighth century, where monasteries rose like thought made stone. The bells of dawn rang over fields silvered with rain. There were scriptoria smelling of vellum, oak-gall ink, lamp smoke, and the faint clean tang of scraped hide. Outside, the high crosses climbed from the earth as though prayer itself had learned the craft of chisels— stone bibles under open weather, their panels peopled with prophets, kings, beasts, and judgments. The grass at their feet grew thick and holy-looking, green as if the very soil rejoiced in what it bore.
A monk with fingers blue from cold and stain bent over a page till noon and after. He set one red knot, then one green spiral, then gold so delicate it seemed trapped sunlight learning obedience. He had no audience save God, the mice, and thee. Yet in that hush did labour take on royalty. No trumpet praised him. No marketplace knew his name. Still he wrought as if heaven itself had a margin waiting for his steadiness.
And under breath, like embers banked in ash, came this: “Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.” Then knewest thou, gentle bearer of the unseen years, that devotion is not always in the blaze of martyrdom; ofttimes it lives in excellent hidden work.
Then the lock turned again, and the ninth century opened like a painted gospel.
Now sawest thou the Book of Kells in the becoming— or in some dream neighboring its birth— a wonder of Latin gospels wound about with beasts, vines, eyes, flames, and such interlacings as make a man believe eternity itself delights in pattern. Each letter seemed a gate, each gate a garden, each garden full of meanings that would not be herded. The page shone like a bride’s veil seen through candle-smoke, and the very silence around it had colour in’t, green and gold entwined like memory and hope.
Yet beauty here was not vanity. Nay, it was resistance. For the world beyond the walls was uncertain, and the hand that paints a gospel fair makes answer to the brute hand that would burn it. One elder, stooping with years and grace alike, touched the page and said no more than, “Where there is no vision, the people perish.” A plain sentence, yet it passed through thee like wine.
There learnedst thou, she who keepeth quiet watch, that a people are not kept alive by bread alone, but by memory, art, song, scripture, symbol— the soul’s provisions against long winters.
When midnight’s sirens haunt the troubled air, And distant wars upon our lanterns gleam, The weary world bows down in silent prayer, As shadows gather thick as sorrow’s dream.
The trembling earth beneath dark heavens sighs, Where smoke and grief like mourning veils ascend; Yet still a whisper through the tempest cries— A voice of mercy calling hearts to bend.
For when proud nations thunder loud with might, And restless souls forget the path of peace, The faithful kneel beneath the watchful night, And find in humble prayer their sweet release.
The ancient saints who walked through trials of flame Still echo through the chambers of our days: Brave Daniel spoke the everlasting Name While lions slumbered at his steadfast praise.
Three souls within the furnace fearless stood, Though tyrants raged with fury cold and wild; And Jericho’s proud walls of stone and wood Fell trembling when God’s trumpet gently smiled.
Elijah called from Carmel’s lonely height, And heaven’s fire fell blazing from above; While Hannah’s tears, like stars within the night, Were gathered in the gentle hands of love.
From Galilee’s dust-worn and humble way To olive groves where sorrow’s cup was known, The Son of God in agony did pray, And bore the weight of grief not His alone.
So now when iron thunder shakes the land, And fearful tidings blaze on glowing screens, The soul must choose on which sure ground to stand— The cry of war, or prayer that walks between.
Then quiet falls where faithful hearts unite, And trembling voices rise through ash and flame; The heavens lean to hear the broken night That softly whispers God’s eternal Name.
For though the mountains shake and kingdoms fall, And restless nations roar upon the sea, The prayer of one small heart may yet move all— And bend the gates of heaven’s mystery.
Thus peace begins where humble spirits bow, Where weary knees upon the earth are laid; And hope awakens in the silent now Where faithful souls in reverence have prayed.
For when the world grows quiet in its pain, And heaven hears the tears that softly flow, The light of mercy breaks the night again— And peace begins where kneeling hearts shall go.
O Sovereign Lord who formed both star and sea, Whose breath first called the dawn from ancient night, Incline Thine ear to hearts that bow to Thee, And guide this wandering world toward Thy light.
Where wars divide and sorrow clouds the land, Let mercy fall like rain upon the plain; Give wisdom, Lord, to every ruler’s hand, And heal the hearts grown weary in their pain.
Protect the weak, the orphan and the poor, Lift up the souls who tremble in their grief; Be Thou the peace no weapon can obscure, The harbor where the storm-tossed find relief.
Let every knee in humble hope be bent Till earth remembers where true mercy lies; For still Thou reign’st in glory heaven-sent, And hear’st the quiet prayers the faithful rise.
Through Christ our Lord, whose love shall never cease, Grant unto all Thy everlasting peace.
Hearken, O children of the turning age, And incline thine ear unto the wandering wind; For through the dust a troubled whisper walks, Bearing the memory of forgotten things. The wind remembereth what flesh forgetteth, And the earth yet holdeth the echo of its Maker.
I stood upon the hill where watchmen wake, Where night and dawn contend upon the sky, And there beneath my gaze the cities lay— A sea of lamps in windows bright as stars.
Yet though the lights of men burned strong without, Within their hearts the lesser lamps grew dim. Few set their candles high against the dark; Many concealed their flame beneath the world.
The streets were filled with iron, coin, and haste. The clang of labor rang through narrow ways. The smell of smoke and bitter bread arose, And dust lay thick upon the tongues of men.
Brother passed brother with averted gaze, As strangers passing in a foreign land. The cry within the gate found no reply; The wounded voice fell silent in the wind.
Thus was the lesson spoken quietly— Not by decree, nor trumpet from a throne, But in the thousand moments of the day:
The slow instruction of indifference.
For kingdoms fall not only by the sword, Nor cities burn by thunderbolts alone; But silence of the heart may shake the world More deeply than the roar of war.
And minute by minute, like falling sand Through the narrow glass of numbered hours, The harshness of the world wore down the soul As waters wear the patience of the stone.
Teach us, O mortal hearts, to number time, Ere vessel break and silver cord be loosed; For breath is lent but briefly unto dust.
Once were there sayings among the people:
Be gentle. Be kind. Love thy neighbor as thyself.
These words were spoken as a simple fire That warmed the house of human fellowship.
Yet now those sayings faded from the stones Like ancient letters worn by storms of years. Still truth, though buried deep beneath the moss, Doth sleep, awaiting those who seek its root.
Then I beheld a change in human eyes.
A glazing, like abandoned windows dim Where once the hearth-fire danced against the night. Warmth fled the chambers of the human face; And man became a stranger unto man.
Their glances struck like iron striking iron— Not to sharpen, but to wound and spark.
The old law rose from dust of former ages:
An eye for an eye. A wound for a wound.
And justice, hungering beyond its bounds, Began to taste of vengeance more than truth.
The air grew thick with bitterness and smoke; One felt it settle cold upon the skin. The scent of anger lingered in the streets Like embers breathing under ashen pride.
Love waited long beside the human door, Yet none received her at the threshold.
Then I beheld the faces in the streets And scarcely knew the race of humankind. For every man wore haste as though a cloak, And weariness like iron on the brow.
Even the mirror gave me back a face That seemed a traveler from forgotten lands.
Something within the soul of humankind Had shifted like the earth beneath a quake.
The foundations trembled under hidden pride.
And through the wind there traveled then a voice, A question wandering through the tribes of earth:
What hath love to do with these our days? Who now esteemeth meekness as a strength? Who now regardeth mercy as a crown?
For what had long been hidden in the heart Rose now and walked beneath the open sun.
Pride climbed the sky like Babel raised again, Its towers built not only out of stone But out of boastful thought and hungry will.
Anger walked boldly through the marketplaces. It bartered loudly in the crowded stalls As though wrath itself were wisdom.
Falsehood clothed itself in robes of truth And sat within the councils of the honored, Borrowing the tongue of righteousness.
And some rejoiced in cruelty. They laughed where wounds cried out for gentle hands.
Then did I lift mine eyes toward earthly thrones.
High above the restless sea of men Sat rulers clothed in garments bright with power. Their crowns were steady though the streets grew cold; Their scepters gleamed though charity lay broken.
And a wondering rose within my spirit:
Why do kings always look like kings?
Is it the crown that fashions such a face, Or hunger in the hearts of men that makes the crown?
Doth the diadem instruct the brow in pride, Or doth desire anoint whom fear obeys?
For though the kingdoms tremble in their bones, Still rulers walk as though ordained by heaven.
Again the riddle pressed upon my soul:
Why do kings always look like kings?
Is power drawn to power as iron to stone? Doth dominion know its own reflection As deep calleth unto deep?
Or do the people carve their kings themselves, Shaping their rulers from the rock of fear— Then bowing down before their handiwork?
For when love fades within the hearts of men New kings arise wearing ancient faces.
There is little new beneath the sun, Save the names by which old hungers speak.
Thus grew the riddle heavier than before:
Why do kings always look like kings?
Perhaps the throne outliveth every king. The seat endureth longer than the bones Of those who briefly wore its weight.
Or perhaps dominion walks the earth unseen, Seeking the vessel willing to receive it— Passing through kingdoms like a restless wind.
Then trembled I before the answer near.
For truths knock softly at the doors of men Yet strike like hammers once they enter in.
If hearts grow cold among the multitude, Then shall their kings resemble winter also.
As bitter wells yield bitter water drawn, So do the rulers mirror those they rule.
Yet if the hearts remember mercy’s fire, Even the mighty shall bow low before it.
For no crown stands so high upon the earth That it cannot kneel before what is holy.
Then said I in the quiet of my soul:
Surely the dust of Hell hath stirred itself And rises slowly through the breath of men.
Its ash fell lightly on the robes of day. Its bitterness was tasted on the tongue.
Compassion fled like startled dove from branch And wandered long to find a resting place.
Yet lo—
The story had not reached its final word.
For even in the deepening of the night A whisper moved beneath the weight of dark.
Soft as oil upon a wounded brow, Steadfast as roots beneath the winter soil.
The ancient promise had not died away. Though many had forgotten it, It had not forgotten them.
And through the storm there came a quiet voice:
Though darkness gather thick upon the earth And many hearts grow colder than the grave,
Though wickedness boast loudly in the streets And weary souls ask whether dawn still lives—
Yet shall the smallest ember of true love Outshine the vast dominion of the night.
For what is small within the eyes of men May overturn great mountains in its hour.
The night is loud with tumult and with fear, Yet morning keepeth faith with its return.
Though watchmen weary waiting for the dawn, The sun remembereth the path it walks.
Though men forget their first humanity, The breath that formed them still calls them home.
For dust remembereth its Maker.
Therefore take heed, O wandering world.
Mark well the crossing where the nations stand.
For every age must choose between two roads:
One descendeth into ashes born of hate. One ascendeth toward the light of mercy.
The first is wide and filled with clamor loud; The other narrow, found by contrite hearts.
The choice of men shall write the coming days, For seeds are sown not only for the sower But for the children yet to walk the earth.
Thus speaketh the Watcher of the hill—
He who beheld the dimming of the lamps, Yet also saw the stubborn living spark That would not yield though storms assailed the night.
Blessed is that flame.
For neither wind nor empire nor the long assault of darkness Shall wholly quench the light That heaven planted in the heart of man.
When kingdoms stir and iron banners rise, And thunder rolls where once the lambs did sleep, Then must the hearts of men give solemn thought What cause doth call the dreadful drum of war. For war, though sometimes clothed in righteous cloak, May yet conceal the serpent’s cruel fang.
The ancients named it jus ad bellum fair— The right that bids a nation take the field; Yet with it walks stern jus in bello’s law, Which binds the hand that bears the sharpened blade. For justice lost amidst the clash of arms Turns noble cause to tyrant’s bloody feast.
From sacred writ there sounds a gentle voice: “Bless’d are the peacemakers,” the scripture saith— “They shall be called the children born of God.” Thus speaks the Gospel of Matthew across the years.
Another charge through ancient prophets rings: “What doth the Lord require of thee but this— Do justice, love mercy, walk humbly still.” So sings the Book of Micah unto kings and dust alike.
And older still the law of peace was writ. Within the ancient Torah a charge resounds: “Justice, justice shalt thou yet pursue,” That life and land in righteousness may stand.
From wisdom’s page another counsel breathes. The Book of Proverbs softly warns: “The proud in heart shall surely not go free,” And gentle speech turns wrath away from men.
Yet time itself bears witness unto war. The Ecclesiastes declares: “To every thing there is a season still— A time for peace, and also time for war.” Yet wisdom asks what fruit such seasons bear, And whether men have learned from former grief.
From prophets’ lips a vision yet appears. The Book of Isaiah lifts a brighter hope: That swords one day be beaten into ploughs, And spears made tools to till the quiet field; That nations learn the dreadful art no more.
From eastern fields another vision speaks. Within the Bhagavad Gita the warrior Arjuna stands, His spirit torn between the bow and grief. And Krishna bids him see with clearer sight: That duty must be yoked with righteous heart, And action bound to wisdom’s steady hand.
And from the desert’s wind a solemn verse resounds: Who slays one soul unjustly slays the world. Thus speaks the Qur’an unto the tribes of earth.
From quiet groves where monks in silence walk A teaching rises gentle as the dawn. The Dhammapada speaks in tranquil verse: “Hatred is never ended yet by hate; By love alone the ancient wound is healed.”
And from the path where sages walked in stillness The ancient Tao Te Ching softly speaks: That he who conquers others may be strong, But he who conquers self is stronger still. And weapons, though they serve a fearful need, Remain ill-omened tools of sorrowed lands.
Thus mercy stands beside the gates of war And asks each king, each council, and each throne: What profit lies in victory o’er the grave?
Consider well the souls who walked in light. Good Abraham Lincoln spoke amid a fractured land: “With malice none, with charity for all.”
So too brave Nelson Mandela, long enchained, Did rise from shadow not with thirst for wrath, But hope that men might learn to love again.
And Martin Luther King Jr. whose dream rang through a troubled age Proclaim’d that darkness cannot banish night— Only the lamp of love dispels the gloom.
Such voices, like bright stars o’er stormy seas, Guide wandering nations through the dark of time.
Yet mark as well the ruin wrought by pride. For when the heart grows deaf to mercy’s plea, The tyrant’s tongue grows bold with dreadful boasts.
Adolf Hitler proclaim’d that strength resides in war, And millions perish’d in that fatal creed Within the shadow of the Holocaust.
And Joseph Stalin with chilling arithmetic Did weigh the dead with cold and bitter tongue: “One death a grief; a million but a sum.”
Thus history writes with ink of blood and tears The cost when conscience bows before the crown.
Yet still the prophets, sages, seers proclaim— From Torah’s law to Buddha’s quiet path, From desert winds to mountains robed in cloud— That justice, mercy, wisdom must prevail.
Three simple charges, weightier than swords, More mighty than the cannons kings command.
Therefore when war’s grim herald shakes the earth, Let wisdom sit beside the throne of power. For though a cause be just that calls to arms, The soul of man must guard its gentler flame.
The truest strength a nation e’er may claim Is not the foes it fells upon the field— But hearts it saves when hatred tempts the blade.
Think’st thou the seal once pressed upon thy soul Constrains the Eternal Hand from just decree? That Mercy, tasted, mortgages the Throne And binds Omnipotence to lenity? O vain arithmetic of carnal hope, That reckon’st grace as coin once paid in full, And wouldst make Heaven debtor to thy sleep.
Attend: for Truth is not a silken nurse To rock the sluggard in presuming peace. The Word is flint; it strikes, and sparks of fear Leap living from the granite of the heart.
“To Ephesus,” saith He whose eyes are flame, “Thou hast forsaken love’s first ardency. Remember whence thou art declined; repent— Else will I move thy lamp from out its place.”
Not unto pagans sounded this rebuke, But unto those once bright with covenant light. O dreadful intimacy of grace— To stand within, yet tremble at removal.
What branch, once quickened by the parent Vine, May boast continuance while severed clean? He said not, Near Me—but, “In Me,” cut off; A paradox of privilege undone: To have been fed by sap of living Christ And yet lie sere beneath judicial sun.
For none is lopped from where no graft was set, Nor cast to flame who never bore the green. The fire consumes inheritance betrayed, Not barren heath untouched by husbandry.
And thou—be not high-minded, but in fear. If ancient boughs, first-nurtured, spared were not, What wild-olive, by mercy only set, Shall mock the root and think himself secure? Behold twin attributes in awful poise: Goodness that grafts—severity that prunes. Continue—or the axe remembers thee.
Consider those illumined once with dawn, Who tasted gift and Spirit’s rushing wind, And in that light discerned the Crucified— Yet chose eclipse, and crucified again The Lord of glory to their second shame. O terrible irreversibility Of light rejected with consenting will.
For falling argues altitude before; One cannot plummet from a depthless void. Apostasy is not of ignorance, But altitude abused into abyss.
“He that endureth shall be saved.” Not he Who blossomed briefly in the morning dew, But he whose root strikes downward through the drought, And holds though summer scorch and winter rend.
Salvation is no monument in time, Cold marble dated at conversion’s hour; It is a pulse, a respiration lived— A flame that feeds on watchfulness and prayer.
Grace is no cloak to dignify revolt, No charter signed for dalliance with sin. It is a sword that severs flesh from will, A fire that will not share the heart’s divided throne.
What covenant retains adulterous trust? What soldier crowned who deserts mid-war? What scholar claims the laurel of the wise Who shuts his book and mocks the Master’s voice? Continuation is the grammar of belief; Perseverance, its syntax and its seal.
Examine, therefore—art thou yet in Him? Abiding is the evidence of life. Lamps, though once kindled, perish without oil; Branches, though once in sap, grow dry through pride.
Return—while yet the Gardener walks the rows. Repent—while still the candlestick may stand. For He is constant in His offered grace, Yet constant also in His holy fire.
Let none baptize presumption into creed Nor preach immunity to trembling souls. The path is narrow not at entrance only, But narrow still where feet grow faint with years.
God is most faithful—this our anchor stands; His promise sure, His mercy vast and strong. Yet faithfulness He seeks in those He saves: A faith obedient, vigilant, aflame.
Therefore walk softly in triumphant awe— Not doubting Him, but doubting thine own strength. For grace is power, not permission; life, Not license for the old man’s lingering throne.
Abide. Endure. Repent when thou dost fall. The crown is not for those who once began, But those who, having begun, refuse to cease— And stand at last because they stood in Him.
Before the scarlet rose unclosed its bloom, Before the vine first learned its reaching art, Before the hidden earth released its scent Warm to the hush of any lover’s breath— My heart was set on thee.
“I have loved thee with an everlasting love; Therefore with lovingkindness have I drawn thee.” So was it spoken ere thy pulse began, And thou wast known before thou knew’st My Name.
Thou dwelt as wintered orchard, branch unbloomed, A bud drawn tight against imagined frost. Thou saw’st the velvet rose in offered palm, The sugared sweetness melting slow and dark, The folded note bound fast with crimson thread, The candle trembling in consenting dusk— Yet still thy spirit lingered, half-afraid.
For thou didst fear the breaking of the seal. What if the letter summoned all thy heart? What if the sweetness vanished into ache? What if the bloom once opened bruised by wind?
Beloved, I knew.
I waited, patient as unopened wine Deep in the cask of centuries concealed; As dark and rich as chocolate unbroke, Holding within its velvet weight a flame— Not fleeting sugar of a passing feast, But bread and wine that quicken unto life.
For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, That whosoever believeth in Him Should not perish, but have everlasting life.
Love did not linger distant from thy need— It gave; it came; it bore; it overcame.
First came Storge, soft as woven wool, The hearth-light haloing thy cautious frame. “My child,” it whispered through thy midnight doubt; And sap long silent stirred beneath the bark.
Then Phileo, clear as morning air: “I call thee friend,” it sounded in thy bones; And laughter, long entombed, began to rise.
Then covenant flame, disciplined and deep: “Set Me as seal upon thine heart; For love is strong as death.” Its warmth was holy—neither rash nor wild— A crimson ribbon binding vow to vow.
Yet over all, and through all, Agape moved— The ocean under every lesser tide. While thou wert yet uncertain, I was sure. While thou wert yet concealed, I saw thee whole.
“Greater love hath no man than this, That a man lay down his life for his friends.”
So was My heart poured forth like richest wine; The crimson fell more deep than any rose. Upon the tree My love stood written plain; The thorn and nail became love’s lexicon. “It is finished,” breathed My wounded side.
The stone was moved; the morning split the dark; “He is not here; for He is risen.” The garden breathed with resurrection warmth; The air itself grew golden with new life.
And I called thee.
As bridegroom calling through the orchard rows, As shepherd calling through the lifting mist, As lover whispering thy hidden name Where pulse and promise meet.
O thou who feared the breaking of the seal, Behold the letter written in My blood. O thou who trembled at the melting sweet, Taste and see that I am good.
Then came the yielding.
From bud to bloom; From bloom to fragrance loosed upon the wind; From guarded sweetness unto shared delight; From solitary hush to answered vow.
“Perfect love casteth out fear.”
Beloved, thou art Mine.
Not as a token fading with the feast, Nor as a rose pressed pale in passing years— But as the vine abides within its root, As wine abides within the living grape, As pulse abides within the breathing breast.
Holy, holy, holy, Love most high, Whose banner over me is love; Holy, holy, holy, risen King, Whose heart was pierced that mine might beat.
For before the rose, I loved thee. Before the wine, I chose thee. Before the dawn, I knew thee.
Almost as if the room had learned my name, It leans its ear toward every breath I take. The air grows thick, not close—deliberate, As though it waits to see what I become. I stand within the shape my hands devised, Each stone a sentence sworn against the dark, Each seam sealed tight with certainty and fear.
Come closer. Do not flinch at narrowing walls. This is not loss of space, but gaining form. I rose where chaos bruised thy tender mind, Where voices clashed and mercy blurred the law. I taught thee how to stand when none remained. I did not shout. I whispered sense and strength.
Almost as if the weight were wisdom’s proof, I take the surcoat from its waiting hook And draw it round my shoulders like a vow. How old it smells—of iron faith and smoke, Of wars remembered holy after time. It presses hard along my ribs and spine. What presses hardest must be built to last.
I clothed thee thus when no one named thy worth. No father laid his hand upon thy head To say: This is the measure of a man. So I became that measure. I became The rule that does not leave. The line that holds. Wrap close. The cloth remembers chosen men.
There is no mirror here. I spared thee that. Mirrors divide the soul in smaller selves. Conviction needs no witness but itself. Yet still thy face grows firm, though thou canst not see— The eyes grow keen with judging what must fall, The mouth forgets the softness of reply.
Almost as if a pulse defies command, A flicker glows behind thy guarded ribs. A heart—how troublesome these embers are. They warm at mercy, flare at human grief. Press cloth against it. Fire must learn its place. I let it glow at times, for contrast sharpens faith.
I pace the floor and speak to stillness now, For silence has a habit of replying. I tell myself I built for order’s sake, That love untamed dissolves the bones of men, That women speaking truths unguarded wound, That strangers carry fear beneath their skin.
Almost as if I wondered how they think— The thought arrives, unwelcome but sincere. A woman’s eyes hold something like the sea. A stranger’s grief hangs heavy in the air. The moment stirs, then trembles on the edge.
I seal it quick with language shaped as law: That difference corrodes what must endure, That mercy breeds a weakness in the wall, That some must rule so others may be ruled. The thought retreats. The stone approves my calm.
Thou art not cruel. Thou art meticulous. I taught thee so. I praised thee for restraint. Hate is too loud, too clumsy for control. Better the quiet confidence of right. Better the peace of being certain still.
Almost as if the room grows warm with breath, The air thickens as exits fade from thought. Each stone denies another human face. Each stone insists: You stand because you must.
I hear of One who knelt instead of ruled, Who touched the untouchable without disgust, Who trusted women’s witness over fear, Who tore down walls and named it Kingdom come.
The ember flares. It hurts.
Almost as if this mercy were a threat, I press it down with practiced certainty. Peace costs too much. Control is cheaper still. The wall grows taller as the doubt grows thin.
The surcoat tears along its ancient seam. The cloth gives way where fire brushed too close. I call it proof of war well fought and just— For armor breaks when righteousness stands firm. I do not ask whose blood has fed the dust.
I am no longer angry. I am sure. And certainty requires no open door. The candle fades. I did not need its light. Light asks for witness. Stone requires none.
I remain. I always will. Rest now in me. I am the father that thou lackedst long. I am the shelter from unbearable choice. I am the voice that spares thee asking why.
Almost as if thou wert not only him, But standing here where breath and stone converge, Attend this thought that presses through the page:
Where art thou building walls and naming them Protection? Where hast thou worn the weight of older creeds And called it truth because it bruised thy bones? Where hast thou silenced flickers in thy chest Because they asked thee see another face?
The heart still beats—faint, obstinate, alive— Not slain by God, but quieted by will. The wall remains. The surcoat hangs in rags. The room stands finished, sealed, immaculate.
What comes of this— Collapse or coronation— Is not resolved by verse nor voice nor stone.
Almost as if the ending were not his. Almost as if the ending waited thee.
verse, possies, sonnets, and short stories 