Methuselah: The Long Silence Before the Storm
In days when giants walked the land,
And Watchers fell by their own hand,
There stood a man of solemn grace—
Methuselah, the space of space.
His father walked with God and soared,
A prophet, priest, and heaven’s scribe.
But he remained—by choice, by will—
To count the days till wrath stood still.
A child of prophecy and flame,
Enoch named him with holy aim:
“When he is gone, it shall be sent.”
And heaven knew just what it meant.
He watched the sun rise cold and low,
As angels wept and shadows grow.
He heard the whispers of the deep,
The cries of those who could not sleep.
He saw the Nephilim arise,
With bodies strong and hollow eyes.
He knew the Watchers’ sin was steep,
And that the judgment would not sleep.
He kept the scroll, he held the line,
A living clock in God’s design.
Nine hundred years and sixty-nine—
Each breath a pause in wrath’s decline.
He taught his grandson to obey,
To build the ark, to light the way.
He warned the people, mourned their fall,
While wickedness consumed them all.
Yet mercy lingered at his door,
The flood held back a moment more.
The Lord would not unleash the tide,
Until the oldest man had died.
And when he passed, the sky grew gray—
The fountains split, the world gave way.
For just as Enoch said it would,
The judgment came like rushing flood.
But Methuselah—silent seer—
Had served his task for many years.
He held the gate, delayed the flame,
Till only Noah bore the name.
Written by Marguerite Grace
Copyright Protected
verse, possies, sonnets, and short stories 