A Prophetess’s Lament Through Hate, Judgment, and the Unbreaking Love of God
đź•Š The Song of the Prophetess Who Held the Rainđź•Š
A Prophetess’s Lament Through Hate, Judgment, and the Unbreaking Love of God
With visions drawn from Eden to Eternity, this sacred testament bears witness to the war between the Root and the Fang,
the final Valley of the Choosing, and the Garden beyond all sorrow.
The Root and the Fang
I stood where time first bled its name
into the dust of Eden’s flame—
and watched the serpent, coiled in grace,
whisper hate into Abel’s face.
A jealousy not yet a word,
but crouched beneath the fig tree’s gird—
its hiss was soft, its teeth were bare,
and Cain, too blind, still found it fair.
“If thou doest well, shalt thou not be accepted? and if thou doest not well,
sin lieth at the door. And unto thee shall be his desire, and thou shalt rule over him.”
(Genesis 4:7, KJV)
I saw him strike. I heard the ground
drink blood like wolves when prey is found.
And thus was born the first of hates:
a wound that multiplied through gates.
The lion did not hate the lamb
until the shepherd broke command.
The leopard’s eyes, once wide with awe,
turned glassy with a hunger raw.
The eagle, once a priest of flight,
now watched with scorn from peaks of night.
And deep beneath the sea’s cold skin,
the serpent curled with joy and sin.
Each beast that bore a fang or claw
was shaped not first for tooth, but law—
but when man fell, so too the beast
was turned from servant into feast.
I’ve watched them feed—I’ve watched them fight,
from Babylon to Sodom’s night.
And hate, it shifts—it wears new skin:
a crown, a creed, a lie, a kin.
It’s in the brother’s slandered name,
the Pharisee who hides his shame.
It grows in Rome, in Reich, in church—
in hands that pray while fists still lurch.
“Whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer:
and ye know that no murderer hath eternal life abiding in him.”
(1 John 3:15, KJV)
Hate is not loud—it often kneels.
It smiles. It reasons. It makes deals.
It builds its temples out of rules,
then stabs the lamb and calls us fools.
It dresses up as wounded pride,
then takes a stone and steps aside.
It dances in the lion’s mane,
and weeps when love is raised again.
But love—oh love, she bleeds so still.
She is the swallow on the hill.
She is the dove that will not flee,
though jackals circle ’round the tree.
She stays. She sings. She breaks no bone.
She binds the wound not once her own.
She does not war, she does not shove—
but never flees, for God is love.
“Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not;
charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up.”
(1 Corinthians 13:4, KJV)
But he who says, “I love the Lord,”
yet keeps his brother’s blood ignored—
he lies to Heaven’s watching eye.
For love that hates is love that dies.
“If a man say, I love God, and hateth his brother, he is a liar:
for he that loveth not his brother whom he hath seen,
how can he love God whom he hath not seen?”
(1 John 4:20, KJV)
For how can he love One unseen,
who cannot love the soul between?
She speaks through oxen at the plow.
She kneels before the calf and cow.
She’s in the ewe who shields the lamb,
though vultures hover near the dam.
I have seen love silenced. Crucified.
Thrown to the lions. Burned and tried.
But hate cannot make roots in flame—
it always chokes when called by name.
Its mother is envy, its cradle fear,
its siblings wrath, revenge, false cheer.
It mates with pride to birth despair—
a lineage heavy, cracked with care.
And though the fox and hawk may rend,
and though the serpent waits to bend—
love outlasts hate not through might,
but by refusing to be right.
O children of the field and sky,
where jackals laugh and vultures cry—
beware the love that bites and takes,
beware the hate that dresses fake.
For both can wear a lion’s crown.
And both can kneel when kingdoms drown.
But only one will rise again,
with scars of lambs and drops of rain.
“By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples,
if ye have love one to another.”
(John 13:35, KJV)
I am the Prophetess who mourns.
I wear no gold. I bear no horns.
I live among the wolves and ash—
and write these warnings in the grass.
For every heart that craves the flame,
must learn which beast it dares to name.
And if you ask which side you claim—
then show me what you do with blame.
The Breath of the Lamb
I am the breath that never broke,
though spears were sharp and altars soaked.
I am the voice not raised in flame,
but whispered still in Eden’s name.
Where hatred screamed, I planted wheat.
Where envy struck, I washed their feet.
I wept in fields that rage had torn—
and bore the thorns that others wore.
“Then said Jesus, Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.
And they parted his raiment, and cast lots.”
(Luke 23:34, KJV)
You think me soft. You call me weak.
Yet I’m the flame the lions seek.
I kissed the wolf. I calmed the tide.
I stayed when all the rest had died.
They built their towers, tall with pride.
I knocked, and none let me inside.
So I became the shepherd’s breath—
the wind that hums through caves of death.
I fed the fox, the bear, the kite.
I clothed the thief who fled by night.
I dwelt with lambs too weak to stand.
I marked their names in dust and sand.
I was the pulse in Abel’s brow.
The sigh in Rachel’s empty vow.
The tear in David’s midnight song.
The balm when all the world went wrong.
I never sought a throne or blade.
I was the lily in the shade.
I was the light beneath the yoke—
the word unburned in Sinai’s smoke.
“Love worketh no ill to his neighbour:
therefore love is the fulfilling of the law.”
(Romans 13:10, KJV)
I walked in gardens long forgot.
I knocked on hearts and found them not.
Yet still I wait—no wrath, no flame—
just open arms, and still the same.
For every child that sin unmade,
I’ve stayed, I’ve wept, I’ve gently prayed.
I do not force. I do not bind.
But still I call the cruel to kind.
You ask where I have been when hate
tore through the streets and sealed man’s fate?
I stood in place and bore their shame.
I bore it still. I bear the same.
I bled in wars I did not wage.
I waited through the tyrant’s age.
And when no hand would lift the poor,
I wept beneath the stable door.
I was the sigh inside the nun,
the hush before the martyr’s run.
I am the root beneath the tree.
The nail that said: “Come back to me.”
“Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not;
charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up,
Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own,
is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil;
Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth;
Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.
Charity never faileth…”
(1 Corinthians 13:4–8, KJV)
I do not fail. I do not cease.
I walk where men forget their peace.
I hold the hand that hate would break.
I feed the soul the wolves forsake.
And when you curse me for your scar,
I do not flee. I stay afar—
until you turn. Then swift, I come.
I never lost. I’ve never run.
You saw the fang. You feared its breath.
But I was there beneath its death.
And I—yes I—will rise once more,
where lion lies and lamb restores.
So look again. Beneath the thorn—
the breath you lost is being born.
Not in the fire, nor in the flood—
but in the Lamb, and in the blood.
The Valley of the Choosing
I have walked the length of time’s despair—
through altars cracked and lion’s lair.
I’ve seen the scrolls that men defaced,
and lambs made dust in Eden’s place.
I’ve cried where every martyr fell,
and drank the smoke of Babel’s bell.
I’ve watched them kiss the fang, the spear—
then ask if God was ever near.
I was the flame behind the veil.
The whisper borne on Judah’s hail.
I never left. I never fled—
I waited where the lost had bled.
When temples fell and justice failed,
I wept within the wind that wailed.
I cupped their names like drops of dew,
and still I whispered, “I choose you.”
Then why do they not choose You back?
Their hearts are stone, their voices black.
They build their cities, mock the sky,
and curse the rain they crucify.
They breed in wrath. They preach in hate.
Their children learn to desecrate.
And still, You bid them to the feast?
What mercy lets the wolves run least?
Because the gate has not yet closed.
Because the wheat is not yet loosed.
Because My scars are still made warm
for any soul that leaves the storm.
They raise their fists—I raise My hands.
They curse—I speak what Love commands.
And though they wound Me without end,
I never lose what I intend.
But we have reached the final dust.
The stars go dark. The sky’s gone rust.
The valley fills. The angels wait.
The blood still boils beneath the gate.
And I—who warned and bore the flame—
have seen no tremble at Your name.
What else is left for You to give?
What heart remains that yet might live?
Only this: the choosing place.
Where every soul shall lift its face.
No mask, no lies, no veils remain—
just truth laid bare in fire and rain.
They’ll see the fang. They’ll see the breath.
They’ll choose the Lamb—or choose their death.
And I will honor what they will,
for love coerced is never still.
Then let the heavens break in two.
Let rivers part for what is true.
Let every beast fall silent now.
Let every king remove his brow.
For I will stand upon this hill,
and cry the names of those who kill—
not to condemn, but still to warn:
the Root still waits, the Lamb was born.
And I will sing where wrath has roared.
I’ll kneel where none have yet adored.
And when the final trumpet calls—
I’ll gather ashes from the walls.
For even then, if one should turn,
I am the fire that does not burn.
I am the breath that never breaks.
The scar that sings. The soul love wakes.
So choose, O soul, before the flame—
before the silence speaks your name.
Choose not by fear, but choose by light.
The valley waits. The end is night.
The Weighing of the Flame
I saw the valley turn to gold—
not wealth, but fire the silence rolled.
No beast remained. No vulture flew.
Only the breathless came in view.
The scrolls were opened—not by hand,
but by the wind across the land.
Each name, each thought, each thread unspun—
no shadow hid from risen sun.
There was no courtroom, judge, nor bar,
no gavel strike, no robe, no star.
Just One who stood in form of man—
with holes where love had made its stand.
His eyes were not of wrath nor sword,
but light so full it split the word.
It searched through bone and soul and cry—
and asked not what, but rather why.
He called no lawyer to defend.
He called no angel to amend.
Each soul stepped forth, both high and low,
and met the truth they thought they’d know.
The proud man raised his head and said,
“I wore Your name. I broke no bread.”
But fire passed through every phrase—
and showed the beggar he’d not praised.
The lover came with folded hands.
The thief who wept. The child who ran.
The woman crushed by tongues of scorn.
The voice who warned and stood forlorn.
And none were judged by mask or fame,
but only by the Lamb they claimed.
Some wept and ran into His side—
and He, with joy, still bore the Bride.
But others cursed. They would not kneel.
They scoffed at wounds they could not feel.
They turned from light with self-made claim—
and fled into the breathless flame.
Not fire of torture, but of loss—
a world without a wooden cross.
A world where self is all that stays,
and every crown becomes its cage.
And still He wept. And still He shone.
And every soul who chose was known.
And none could blame. And none could lie.
And none could say, “You did not try.”
For there, upon the altar stone,
was every tear not wept alone.
And every nail the Lamb had borne—
the judgment passed: a soul reborn.
Or lost.
đź•Š The Marriage of the Lamb đź•Š
(The Fifth Testament in The Song of the Prophetess Who Held the Rain)
I saw the sky no longer weep—
the stars stood still, the earth asleep.
The veil was torn, yet none did mourn,
for Love stepped forth in bridal form.
No more the cry, “How long, O Lord?”
No more the rusted, waiting sword.
No more the curse, the grief, the grave—
for all was met, and all forgave.
And lo, a city clothed in flame—
not wrath, but light without a name.
The gates were pearl. The streets were song.
The Lamb had waited all along.
“Let us be glad and rejoice, and give honour to him:
for the marriage of the Lamb is come,
and his wife hath made herself ready.”
(Revelation 19:7, KJV)
No temple stood, for none was needed—
no priest, for every scar had pleaded.
No sun, for glory lit the span—
no night, for God was now with man.
And I, the prophetess once torn,
whose warnings clashed like bridal horn—
stood trembling in the holy air,
and wept to see the Bride made fair.
She wore no gold, no woven thread—
but garments washed where Jesus bled.
Her crown was not of gem or flame—
but every soul who bore His name.
Blessed is she who bore the pain,
and kissed the cross, and drank the rain.
Blessed is he who bowed to serve—
whose crown was love, not rule, not nerve.
They danced where once the serpent hissed.
They drank what once the world dismissed.
They laughed where once the jackals cried—
the Lamb had wed His ransomed Bride.
“And I John saw the holy city, new Jerusalem,
coming down from God out of heaven,
prepared as a bride adorned for her husband.”
(Revelation 21:2, KJV)
No cry of war, no sound of blame—
just songs that bore the Savior’s name.
And angels bowed, and saints arose—
and time at last was made to close.
A tree stood tall by crystal sea—
its leaves for all, its roots for thee.
The lion laid beside the deer.
The lamb looked up. There was no fear.
For Love had wed. The scrolls were done.
The wounds now shone as morning sun.
The fire remained, but now it healed—
the scars of saints became their shield.
And I—who warned through flood and flame—
now knelt beneath the Lamb’s own name.
I bore no words. I wrote no cry.
I watched the Bride kiss Heaven’s sky.
“And there shall be no night there; and they need no candle,
neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light:
and they shall reign for ever and ever.”
(Revelation 22:5, KJV)
So ends the rain. So ends the scroll.
The Lamb has wed. He makes us whole.
No prophet now. No veil. No thorn.
Just Love fulfilled. The Kingdom born.
Written by Marguerite Grace
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