The watchman leaned upon the gate,
His face was gray, his heart was late;
He heard the earth in anguished cry,
He saw the stars fall from the sky.
The fields were cracked like broken bone,
The rivers shrank, the seeds unsown;
The farmer’s plow turned up dry dust,
The bread was gone, the bins held rust.
“Behold, the famine rides the land,”
The watchman cried with lifted hand.
“The pale horse runs, the scythe is swung—
The songs of harvest go unsung.”
The storehouse doors were ripped apart,
The hungry clawed with savage heart;
The merchant weighed with crooked scale,
The widow sold her wedding veil.
The streets were fire, the stones were blood,
The law was drowned beneath the flood;
“Nation shall rise ’gainst nation still,”
The prophets spoke—and speak they will.
The cities roared with lawless cries,
The markets burned before men’s eyes;
The rulers bartered truth for lies,
While brother watched as brother dies.
The earth convulsed in wrath and flame,
The seas rose up to curse man’s name;
The mountains crumbled into ash,
The sun grew dark, the heavens crashed.
“There shall be signs in sun and moon,”
The scroll had warned—a solemn tune—
“The stars shall fall, men’s hearts shall fail,
The roaring seas, the winds that wail.”
The sickness flew on unseen wings,
The pestilence claimed priests and kings;
The faces once so bold and fair
Now sank in pallid, hollow stare.
And wars were loosed from east to west,
And blood and smoke became man’s guest;
The sword devoured without end,
As father slew his father’s friend.
“Ye shall hear of wars, and rumors spread,”
The scroll had said—the prophets bled.
“But see ye be not yet afraid;
These sorrows must first be displayed.”
The poor man wept beneath the lash,
The rich man slept upon his cash;
The orphans roamed in bands and hordes,
While tyrants laughed and drew their swords.
The love of many waxed ice-cold,
The faithful few grew thin and old;
The churches bent to Caesar’s crown,
The altars fell, the crosses down.
The Watchman wept upon the wall,
“O hear, O see, O heed the call!
The thief approaches in the night,
The house shall fall for want of light.”
“Had the master known the thief would come,”
The Watchman cried, “he’d guard his home!”
“He’d keep his lamp, he’d bar the door,
He’d stand, and not fall to the floor.”
But still they danced, and still they feasted,
Still they mocked, and still they wasted;
Their hearts were drunk on ease and gold,
Their eyes were blind, their hands were cold.
The Watchman cried:
“Repent! Return!
The fields are ash, the seas shall burn.
The time is short, the judgment sure,
Only Christ can yet endure!”
Food shortages, and famines dread,
The weeping child, the broken bread;
Civil unrest, the clash of shields,
The burning homes, the blood-soaked fields;
The roaring plagues, the roaring seas,
The broken laws, the fallen trees;
The hatred, pride, and lust for gain,
The rising flood, the driving rain.
O world! You seek another king—
A man to cure this grievous sting!
But none shall rise to heal the land;
The wound is deeper than man’s hand.
“Trust not in princes, nor in men,”
The Watchman spoke again, again;
“Their breath departs, their dust remains—
Only the Lamb can break these chains!”
Only Christ—who bore the tree,
Who rose to set the captives free—
Only Christ—whose blood was shed,
Can raise again the broken dead.
The Watchman knelt in ash and dust,
“O soul, repent! O soul, you must!
The Thief comes swift, the night is black;
Prepare your heart, or lose the track.”
And still the world slept in its pride,
And still the Thief approached, to stride
Across the gates, across the fields,
To claim what man refused to yield.
O watchers, trim your lamps anew!
The trumpet sounds! The sky breaks through!
The Watchman calls with dying breath—
“Arise, arise, escape the death!”
For soon the heavens split and rend,
And Christ, the King, shall crown the end;
The sword shall fall, the fields shall bloom,
For those who pass the judgment’s gloom.
The Watchman fades into the mist,
The Thief draws near, unseen, unkissed.
The hour is late, the fall is steep—
Awake, O soul, no longer sleep.
Written by Marguerite Grace
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verse, possies, sonnets, and short stories 