“And Still They Would Not Turn”
A Prophetess Speaks
I saw the heavens bowed in flame,
And angels wept—they weep the same.
They hold no harps when souls are lost,
They sing no song above the cost.
The seraphs cried with wings ash-grey,
Each tear a fire, each sigh a fray—
“O Holy, Holy, Lord Most High,
Why must they always choose to die?”
(Isaiah 6:2–3; Luke 15:7)
The throne of light shook with the sound
Of mourning not from earth—but Crowned.
For Christ, the Lamb, whose wounds still gleam,
Now weeps for those who spurn the stream.
“I bled,” He says, “but they won’t see.
I call, but none return to Me.
I knock—but hearts are loud with pride.
I wait—and still, I’m kept outside.”
(Revelation 3:20; Luke 13:34)
O earth, your pride is robed in rot,
You dance in flames and call it thought.
You curse His name on every tongue,
You break the law He wrote in stone.
(Exodus 20; Romans 1:21–32)
You kill your children, mock the womb,
You laugh while marching toward the tomb.
You crown your idols made of screen,
And crucify the Nazarene.
Your prophets cry in alley dust,
But still you do not hear or trust.
You turn your back to ancient flame,
And build your Babels once again.
(Jeremiah 7:25–27; Genesis 11:4)
But I—a daughter clothed in ash,
A prophetess with tongue like brass—
I’ve seen the scroll, I’ve read the fire,
I’ve heard the sound of angels’ lyre.
They play no songs but mournful chords,
For Heaven groans with silent swords.
“Woe, woe,” they cry, “the time is near,
And still they will not see or fear.”
(Ezekiel 33:11; Revelation 8:13)
Holiness burns with gentle hands,
But flesh is dust and never stands.
We trade the sacred for the swift,
We leave the Giver, chase the gift.
Yet He who hung on blood-soaked wood
Still pleads in mercy, speaks for good.
“Return,” He says, “while time remains.
For soon the sky shall break its chains.”
(Isaiah 55:6; Hebrews 10:31)
I speak not just in rhyme and verse,
But with the weight of Eden’s curse.
This world will fall—this age will end—
And Christ shall not descend… to mend.
He comes to reign, to judge, to sift—
To shake the proud, to raise the ripped.
He calls to you, O earthen bride:
“Be washed, be clean, come now, abide.”
And still—they will not turn.
But I—
I will not still.
I will cry louder
Until He comes.
Written by Marguerite Grace
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