THE DRESSING ROOM OF NIGHT

THE DRESSING ROOM OF NIGHT

An Epic Hospital Canticle of Victory Over Death

(A Canto-Poem in Blank Verse, KJV woven throughout)

CANTO I — The Machines That Breathe for Men

Night in a hospital is not quiet—

it only learns to whisper like a sea

behind a wall: the soft alarms, the carts,

the paper gowns that rasp like winter leaves,

the distant elevator’s throat of steel,

and nurses’ shoes that pass like measured rain.

Two beds. Two curtains half-remembered closed.

Two men the day had named terminal—

as if a word could fence eternity.

The older one lay angled toward the dark,

a weathered jaw, a throat that held its grit

the way old barns hold nails and old storms’ scars.

His hands were broad, but thinner now,

as though the body had been paying out

its final rope, strand by strand.

Across from him, the younger man—

not young as children mean it, but as flame

means young: still burning hard, still aimed.

He wore a patient band and pale-blue gown,

yet under that, the posture of a soldier,

the eye that stays awake at any sound.

A minister—new-ordained, still fierce with wonder—

who’d walked with Scripture like a pocket knife,

and carried prayer the way some carry breath.

A nurse came in at nine, checked drips,

left the room with practiced gentleness;

the hallway swallowed her and shut its mouth.

The clock continued, faithful as a pulse.

And then the younger man began to pray—

not loudly, but with such bright gratitude

it seemed to lift the ceiling by a hair:

“Thank you, Lord, for every mercy given—

for breath, for blood, for light through hospital blinds.

Thank you that I soon shall see thy face—

for Jesus Christ hath made the passage sure.”

He paused, and smiled into the unseen world,

as if the air itself were full of promise.

That was when the older man spoke up—

a stone in the still water. Rough. Awake.

“Hey. Hear now. I don’t want to hear this.

Not tonight. Not your… God-talk.”

The younger turned, surprised but not offended,

as one who’s trained to welcome honest wounds.

The old man’s voice grew sharper with his fear:

“Who are you praying to? And why? And where?

How do you do it—talking to the air—

like someone’s listening?”

The minister’s eyes lit like struck flint.

“Friend,” he said, “I’m praying to the Lord—

the living God—who made us, and who sent

his only Son to save us from our sins.

And prayer is simply speaking truth to Him,

and listening, too—though listening is slow.”

The old man snorted, half contempt, half ache.

“Show me,” he said. “Don’t give me pretty lines.

You’ve got a book? A verse? Something that holds?”

The younger nodded, eager and steady.

“I do,” he said, “and much of it by heart.

You asked me why—so hear what God has said:

‘For God so loved the world, that he gave

his only begotten Son, that whosoever

believeth in him should not perish,

but have everlasting life.’” (John 3:16)

The old man shifted, eyes narrowing.

“Everlasting,” he muttered. “That’s a big word

for men with tubes in them.”

The minister did not flinch.

“And Jesus said—when death was standing close

beside a sister’s grief—He said this plain:

‘I am the resurrection, and the life:

he that believeth in me, though he were dead,

yet shall he live:

And whosoever liveth and believeth in me

shall never die.’” (John 11:25–26)

The old man stared at the ceiling tile

as if it might crack and show a different sky.

A cart squealed faintly down the hall.

Somewhere, a monitor pulsed its green heartbeat—

a steady metronome for mortal time.

The older man said, softer now:

“You talk like you’re not scared.”

The minister smiled—not proud, but certain.

“I’m not,” he said, “the way I used to be.

Because the Word says this of Jesus—

‘Knowing that Christ being raised from the dead

dieth no more; death hath no more dominion

over him.’” (Romans 6:9)

“And what about us?” the old man snapped.

“You gonna tell me we get the same deal?”

The minister breathed in like a man

about to lift a heavy, holy thing.

“The gift is offered,” he said. “And yes—

for those in Christ. For it is written:

‘He that heareth my word, and believeth

on him that sent me, hath everlasting life,

and shall not come into condemnation;

but is passed from death unto life.’” (John 5:24)

The old man’s mouth opened—then shut again,

as if his arguments had lost their map.

A nurse returned at ten, adjusted the IV,

wrote something down, asked “pain?”—then left.

The room grew inward, like a prayer itself.

CANTO II — The Vision with Chains

The older man swallowed twice.

“I didn’t believe,” he said at last.

“Not really. Not ever. I didn’t hate it.

I just… never thought about it much.”

He paused, and in that pause the machines

seemed to listen.

“Until the other night,” he said.

“Something strange happened to me.”

The minister’s body went still—

the stillness of a watchman seeing smoke.

“What happened?” he asked.

The old man’s voice roughened, as if memory

had teeth.

“I was in my living room. TV on.

And then—without warning—I wasn’t there.”

He shook his head slowly.

“I went somewhere else. And I heard a sound

not of this world. Not like any noise

that ever came from pipes or engines.

It was… heavy. Like metal thunder.”

The minister leaned forward.

“And I saw them,” the old man whispered.

“Large beings. Miles away at first,

but I could see them and I could hear them—

as if distance didn’t matter.”

He licked his lips, and fear passed through his eyes

like a dark bird.

“They were floating—feet off the ground—

and chains… chains like eight inches round—

huge links, like ship-anchor links.

And their noise was deafening.”

He gripped his blanket, knuckles white.

“I knew they were coming after me.

The dread… the hopelessness…

it’s unmatched. Unimaginable.”

He turned his face toward the younger man

as if asking for a verdict that could save.

“What do you think that was? What I saw?”

The minister did not mock him.

He did not cheapen terror into metaphor.

He spoke gently, but with iron underneath:

“I don’t claim to know the shape of what you saw,

but I know this: there is an enemy—

and death has fear as one of its tools.

Yet Scripture says of Jesus:

‘Forasmuch then as the children are partakers

of flesh and blood, he also himself likewise

took part of the same;

that through death he might destroy him

that had the power of death, that is, the devil;

And deliver them who through fear of death

were all their lifetime subject to bondage.’”

(Hebrews 2:14–15)

The old man blinked, hard.

“Destroy,” he repeated. “Deliver.”

The minister nodded.

“And the Word says—Christ—

‘hath abolished death, and hath brought life

and immortality to light through the gospel.’”

(2 Timothy 1:10)

A silence spread—wide as an ocean trench.

The old man whispered:

“I can’t say what happened next.

I just woke up here—hospital bed.

My daughter found me. Ambulance.

Now I’m here.”

He stared at the minister’s hands.

“Well… if what you’re saying is true—

then I don’t want those things again.”

The minister’s eyes softened.

“Friend,” he said, “I have faith you never have to.

I can’t promise you won’t die—because we will—

but I can promise what God has promised:

that death is not the final room.”

He lifted his chin toward the dim ceiling.

“This place—these beds—these gowns—

it’s a dressing room.”

The old man frowned.

“Scripture for that?” he challenged weakly.

The minister answered at once:

“For we know that if our earthly house

of this tabernacle were dissolved,

we have a building of God,

an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.”

(2 Corinthians 5:1)

“And also: ‘For here have we no continuing city,

but we seek one to come.’” (Hebrews 13:14)

The older man’s eyes shone briefly—

not with belief yet, but with longing.

CANTO III — Death Swallowed Whole

The minister’s voice deepened, becoming

both witness and weapon—tender and sure.

“You asked how I can thank God near death.

Because of victory—listen:

‘So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption,

and this mortal shall have put on immortality,

then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written,

Death is swallowed up in victory.

O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?

…But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory

through our Lord Jesus Christ.’” (1 Corinthians 15:54–57)

The old man’s breath caught.

“Swallowed,” he murmured. “In victory.”

The minister continued, steady as scripture itself:

“The prophet said it long before:

‘He will swallow up death in victory;

and the Lord GOD will wipe away tears

from off all faces.’” (Isaiah 25:8)

“And again:

‘O death, I will be thy plagues;

O grave, I will be thy destruction.’” (Hosea 13:14)

The old man shut his eyes.

A single tear gathered, not yet falling.

The minister spoke the promise at the end of days:

“And in Revelation:

‘And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes;

and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying,

neither shall there be any more pain.’” (Revelation 21:4)

“And: ‘And death and hell were cast into the lake of fire.’”

(Revelation 20:14)

The old man’s face tightened, then loosened—

as if some knot had begun to untie.

The minister lowered his voice.

“And for those who mourn, the Word says:

‘I would not have you to be ignorant, brethren,

concerning them which are asleep,

that ye sorrow not, even as others which have no hope…

For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again,

even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him.’”

(1 Thessalonians 4:13–14)

The room felt warmer, though the thermostat

had not changed.

The older man whispered:

“I’m scared.”

The minister replied at once, as if handing him

a torch in a tunnel:

“‘Yea, though I walk through the valley

of the shadow of death,

I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.’”

(Psalm 23:4)

“And this:

‘For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life…

shall be able to separate us from the love of God,

which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.’” (Romans 8:38–39)

The old man swallowed again.

“Is it… too late?” he asked.

“Younger, I mean—if I never believed?”

The minister’s answer was quick, like mercy:

“It’s not too late while you can still hear.

The wages of sin is death—yes—

but hear the whole verse:

‘For the wages of sin is death;

but the gift of God is eternal life

through Jesus Christ our Lord.’” (Romans 6:23)

The old man’s lips trembled.

CANTO IV — How a Man Is Saved

The minister leaned closer, not pressuring—

inviting, like a door held open.

“Friend, salvation is not earned by good works,

or by joining a church, or by being “religious.”

It is received.

‘For by grace are ye saved through faith;

and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God:

Not of works, lest any man should boast.’”

(Ephesians 2:8–9)

The old man stared.

“Then what do I do?” he asked, voice smaller.

The minister answered with Scripture like bread:

“First: believe who Jesus is.

He said: ‘I am the way, the truth, and the life:

no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.’” (John 14:6)

“Then: receive Him.

‘But as many as received him,

to them gave he power to become the sons of God,

even to them that believe on his name.’” (John 1:12)

“And confess Him.

‘That if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus,

and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised him

from the dead, thou shalt be saved.’” (Romans 10:9)

“For: ‘Whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord

shall be saved.’” (Romans 10:13)

The old man’s eyes filled, this time openly.

A tear ran down into the crease of his cheek,

and he did not wipe it away.

The minister softened further:

“And when a man asks, ‘What must I do to be saved?’

Scripture answers:

‘Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ,

and thou shalt be saved.’” (Acts 16:31)

The old man nodded once—

a motion small enough to miss,

yet large enough to move a soul.

He rasped:

“I never thought I’d be here—

believing anything.”

The minister said quietly:

“Even Job spoke hope beyond the grave:

‘For I know that my redeemer liveth…

and though after my skin worms destroy this body,

yet in my flesh shall I see God.’” (Job 19:25–26)

“And Solomon said:

‘Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was:

and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.’”

(Ecclesiastes 12:7)

“And the Psalms say:

‘But God will redeem my soul

from the power of the grave:

for he shall receive me.’” (Psalm 49:15)

“‘Precious in the sight of the LORD

is the death of his saints.’” (Psalm 116:15)

The old man breathed out shakily.

“And what about… after?” he asked.

“Is it really… different?”

The minister’s voice became almost luminous:

“Yes. And at the end, the last enemy falls:

‘The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.’”

(1 Corinthians 15:26)

“And Jesus promised:

‘Because I live, ye shall live also.’” (John 14:19)

The old man stared at him a long time,

as if weighing a bridge.

Then—hoarse, humbled:

“Would you… pray with me?”

CANTO V — The Handheld Prayer

The minister nodded, and rose slightly in bed.

He reached across the small space between worlds.

The old man hesitated—then placed his hand

into the minister’s.

Their fingers clasped—

bone and warmth and time and grace.

The minister began aloud.

First, thanksgiving—

as if gratitude were the key that turns

the lock of fear:

“Lord God Almighty,

I thank thee for breath in this night.

I thank thee that thou art near to the brokenhearted,

and that even here—among beeping machines—

thy Word is living and powerful.

I thank thee for Jesus Christ,

who came not to condemn, but to save.

I thank thee that thy promise stands,

though our bodies fail.”

The old man watched him, silent.

Another tear slipped free.

Then the prayer changed—

from thanks into rescue.

“And now, Lord—

you have said in your Word,

‘For God so loved the world, that he gave

his only begotten Son,

that whosoever believeth in him

should not perish, but have everlasting life.’

And Jesus, you have said,

‘I am the resurrection, and the life.’

And you have said,

‘He that believeth in me, though he were dead,

yet shall he live.’”

The minister squeezed the old man’s hand.

“Lord, my friend here calls upon thee now.

You have said,

‘Whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord

shall be saved.’

And you have said,

‘Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ,

and thou shalt be saved.’”

The old man’s lips quivered;

he did not speak, but his eyes begged yes.

“Father, we confess: we have sinned.

We cannot purchase heaven with our hands.

But you have said,

‘For by grace are ye saved through faith…

it is the gift of God.’

So we receive the gift.

Lord Jesus, we believe you died for us,

and rose again.

Your Word says,

‘That if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus,

and shalt believe in thine heart

that God hath raised him from the dead,

thou shalt be saved.’”

The old man’s thumb moved faintly—

a small press, a silent amen.

“And Lord, for the fear of death,

we hold your victory:

‘Death is swallowed up in victory…

thanks be to God,

which giveth us the victory

through our Lord Jesus Christ.’

We ask you now—wash him clean.

Bring him from death unto life.

Let the dread of those chained terrors

never touch him again.

Let your angels encamp round about him.

And when his breath grows thin,

let him be carried into peace.

For you have promised:

‘Because I live, ye shall live also.’

And you have promised:

‘And God shall wipe away all tears…

and there shall be no more death.’”

The old man’s face softened

like earth after rain.

The minister whispered the close:

“In Jesus’ name. Amen.”

The room held still—

as if heaven had leaned closer.

And then a nurse opened the door.

“Sir,” she said, gentle, professional,

“We need to take you down for tests.”

The minister released the old man’s hand reluctantly,

as if letting go of a rope between ships.

“I’ll be back,” he promised.

The older man nodded—

and for the first time, his eyes were not hard.

CANTO VI — A Different Sound

Time passed like slow water.

The minister went down sterile hallways,

under white lights and medical speech,

and returned with fatigue in his limbs—

yet peace running deeper than the pain.

When he came back, the room was changed.

A few people stood near the older man’s bed—

and at the bedside, a woman—his daughter—

folded over him, crying into his shoulder

as though trying to hold him inside the world.

The minister stopped in the doorway.

The daughter looked up, face wet, eyes wide.

She recognized him—someone had told her

the other patient was “a preacher.”

She rose, trembling.

“He’s gone,” she said—

and somehow her grief carried light inside it,

as though sorrow had found a secret door.

The minister stepped closer, quiet as reverence.

The daughter wiped her face and spoke fast,

as if afraid the miracle might fade:

“Before he left… he looked at me and said—

‘Do you hear them?’”

She swallowed.

“I said, ‘Hear who, Dad?’”

And then her voice broke open.

“He said, ‘I hear the angels in Heaven.

They are thousands upon thousands of them.

I’m singing with them.

I can’t understand what they are saying—

but I’m singing with them.’”

She pressed her hand to her mouth, sobbing.

“And then… he just… rested.”

She looked at the minister through tears

that were no longer only grief.

“I know Dad made it,” she said.

“I know it.”

The minister bowed his head—

not triumph, but awe.

In the background, the machines continued,

but the room had learned a holier sound—

a hush like wings, a silence full of song.

And somewhere beyond the dressing room of time,

beyond the beeps and midnight corridors,

a promise stood—unchanged, unbroken:

“Death is swallowed up in victory.”

Written by Marguerite Grace

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