The Coming of Selah
I knelt at pews while still a child,
with hands so small, with prayers so mild.
The hymns would rise like mist and call,
and I believed — I heard them all.
The light through stained glass warmed my skin;
the pastor’s voice would fold me in.
I whispered prayers to skies unseen,
and dreamed of Heaven, soft and clean.
But seasons turn and children grow;
the river pulls, the winds must blow.
A husband’s hand, a wedding ring,
a crib, a pot, a roof, a spring.
I bore my sons, I fed my kin;
I wore the earth upon my skin.
There was no time for sacred things —
only the hush of passing wings.
At night, I’d whisper half a prayer,
but sleep would steal me unaware.
I thought: The Lord is kind and good —
He knows I’d come, if only I could.
Years galloped past like pounding rain,
the harvests thick, the labors plain.
My Selah hands grew worn and grey;
the hymns I sang were tucked away.
I paid my dues, I kept my name,
I harmed no soul, I played no game.
I left the cross to gather dust,
but told myself, Believe I must.
Believe, I said — and thought it done,
as if belief alone could run
the race the saints had bled to win,
without the rending death of sin.
The candle falters in its glass;
the cold around me breathes like grass.
The walls grow slick; the floorboards moan;
the whisper slithers through the stone.
What stirs beyond the withered pane?
What shadow stains the windowpane?
The light itself begins to flee —
O Christ, O Christ, have eyes for me!
They’re here! They creep — they clatter low —
their talons rake the floors below.
Their wings are moths, their breath is tar,
they know my name — they call, Selah!
They grin with mouths too wide for face;
they limp, they crawl, they have no grace.
Their voices splinter into glass,
their claws reach through the hollowed past.
The crib, the fields, the song, the day —
they tear those memories away.
And in the end, I see the truth:
I traded Christ for work and youth.
Oh Christ, You watched me build in sand;
You knocked — and still I stayed my hand!
You begged — and I was deaf with care;
You bled — and I was unaware.
I wore Your name like borrowed thread,
I walked the line the living tread.
But never bent, and never wept,
and now — the harvest I have reaped.
They’re at the bed! Their fingers thorn!
Their eyes are pits of broken scorn!
They sing a song of withered grace;
they chant the failures of my race.
I reach — but no hand grips my own;
I fall — and none will claim this bone.
I cry — but mercy shuns the call;
I plead — but pride has damned it all.
O Christ, O Breath, O wounded Lamb —
If there is pardon, let it stand!
If one drop lingers in the cup —
if ever love can lift me up—
But no: the doors are shut and sealed,
the iron teeth of sin revealed.
Forgive me still, though faithless I —
forgive me, lest I screaming die—
The watchers weep — but Selah’s fled,
drawn down among the ragged dead.
The candle sputters into black,
the shadows tear the heavens back.
And Selah’s breath is heard no more,
but lost beyond the bolted door.
Written by Marguerite Grace
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verse, possies, sonnets, and short stories 