One Author, Many Pens

A sacred epic of faith, devotion, and the breath that binds all words

“This is an original sacred poem written in a Hebrew epic style, authored by me.”

One Author, Many Pens

A sacred epic of faith, devotion, and the breath that binds all words

“This is an original sacred poem written in a Hebrew epic style, authored by me.”

PROEM: The Single Breath

Hear, O soul—Shema—
hear not only with the ear,
but with the deep chambers where memory sleeps
and waits to be awakened.

Hear, for the silence before thunder is not void,
not hollow, not absent—
it is heavy, it is charged, it is pregnant with voice.

Before ink learned to cling to reed,
before skins were stretched and scraped to remember what mouths could not keep,
before letters were numbered,
before grammar bent language into rule,
before the stars were counted by shepherd eyes
and named with trembling wonder,

One Author moved upon the face of the deep,
hovered, brooded, breathed—
and the waters shuddered like bronze struck by fire,
like metal learning its purpose in heat.

Not many gods.
Not fractured wills.
Not rival flames contending for dominion.

But One.
Unseen.
Unspent.
Unexhausted.

Whose word was light enough for the next footstep
when the road refused to show its end,
whose voice was sufficient
when the horizon withheld its counsel.

And men came—
with trembling hands and dust-darkened feet.

And women came—
with lullabies braided from promise and pain,
with stories sewn into cloth and cradle.

Prophets came—
with tongues scorched bright as coals,
with mouths ruined and remade by vision.

Kings came—
with crowns heavy from blood and mercy,
with hands that learned both war and repentance.

Fishermen came—
with nets smelling of salt and labor and hope.

Each wrote differently.
Each spoke differently.
Each sang differently.
Each bled differently.

Yet every voice confessed the same astonishment,
the same awe,
the same fear-touched devotion:

One Author.
Many pens.

One river uttering itself through many stones.
One fire fed by many wicks.
One covenant-love—ḥesed—
pursuing, enduring, refusing the grave.

Faith Awakens by Hearing

Faith does not rise from the self.
It is not manufactured by will,
nor assembled by intellect,
nor conjured by desire.

Faith arrives.

It comes as sound before sense,
as summons before explanation.

It strikes the sealed heart like rain on hardened clay
until the clay remembers
it was always meant to open,
always meant to receive.

Faith comes by hearing—
not by striving,
not by cleverness,
not by argument or proof—

but by the Word that speaks first
and waits,
patient and sovereign,
for the echo.

Abram hears a summons that tastes like exile:
Go.

Go from the land that knows your name.
Go from the dust that recognizes your feet.
Go from the familiar weight of kin and memory.

No map is given.
No proof is offered.
No timetable is explained.

Only a promise shaped like breath,
like pulse,
like a future not yet seen
but already spoken.

And the air around his tent becomes a doorway.
And the ground beneath his feet becomes a threshold.

Thus the ladder appears—
not fashioned of timber,
not built of vision alone,

but wrought of obedience,
set quietly between heaven and dust,
waiting for the first step.

Faith Is Chosen — and Walks Without Sight

Hearing alone does not carry the body.
Sound must become consent.
Voice must meet the will.

Faith must be chosen.

Choose this day, cries the ancient voice.
Choose life.
Choose whom you will serve.
Choose whom you will trust
when sight falters
and certainty dissolves.

The will bends.
The heart consents.
The soul inclines itself toward obedience.

And faith learns to walk
without seeing.

Blessed are those who have not seen
and yet have believed—
blessed not because they are naïve,
but because they entrust themselves
to the Speaker.

Faith steps where certainty refuses to go.
Faith places weight where proof has not yet appeared.
Faith becomes substance before evidence,
foundation before fulfillment.

It is a hand reaching into darkness
and discovering the rail already warm,
already placed,
already faithful.

The senses are conscripted into worship:

Sand grinding between teeth in wilderness heat.
Manna breathing sweetness like morning seed.
Fire crackling at Sinai, alive and terrible.
Thunder pressing against the ribs
until the heart learns reverence.

A people hear a voice without form
and are asked to trust an invisible King.

When fear speaks louder than promise,
the ladder fractures.
The wilderness lengthens.
Memory dulls.
Hope thins.

Yet mercy writes again in the margins.
Mercy speaks again.
Mercy does not withdraw the call.

Faith Produces Obedience

Faith that never moves the feet
is breath without lungs,
a hymn without voice,
a body without life.

Abraham binds the promise to the altar,
binds the future to obedience,
and lifts the blade of trust.

And heaven leans forward,
holding its breath,
for obedience is always watched.

Fishermen cast nets against reason,
against habit,
against the logic of empty nights,

and answer the deep with obedience.

And the sea yields more than logic allows,
more than effort deserves,
more than fear expects.

Obedience does not purchase love.
Obedience proves love.
It reveals love already present.

O Lord—
how can I explain this knowing?

It is not argument.
It is recognition.
It is the soul remembering its origin.

I know as bone knows its marrow.
I know as lungs know air.
I know as thirst knows water.

How do I know?

I just do.

Because You have spoken,
and Your voice leaves fingerprints on the soul—
marks not easily erased,
impressions that endure.

Faith Is Tested

Faith is not revealed in calm weather.
It is revealed when the storm removes disguise,
when comfort dissolves
and devotion stands exposed.

Gold learns its name in fire.
Faith learns its truth under weight.

Job speaks with ash on his tongue:
Though He slay me,
yet will I trust Him.

Peter steps upon water
and learns that fear has gravity.
He sinks.
He cries.
He is seized.

The test is not cruelty.
The test is not abandonment.

It is craftsmanship.

The furnace is not a tomb.
It is a forge.
It shapes what cannot be shaped gently.

Faith learns to sing with salt in its throat.
Faith learns to pray when heaven seems silent.
Faith learns to remember promise
when memory aches
and hope trembles.

And the Spirit—Ruach—moves.

Sometimes as wind that roars and breaks resistance.
Sometimes as breath that steadies shaking hands.
Sometimes unseen,
yet always present.

Faith Perseveres and Becomes a Way of Life

Faith does not visit.
Faith abides.
Faith takes up residence in time.

The just do not merely believe by faith—
they live by it,
walk by it,
endure by it.

Tribulation works patience.
Patience tempers hope.
Hope refuses shame.

Kings rise.
Kings fall.
Judges forget.
Exiles weep beside foreign rivers.

Sometimes faith charges like a champion.
Sometimes it limps, repentant and bruised.

Still the Author writes.
Still the story continues.
Still mercy pursues like a hound
that does not tire of the scent.

Wisdom and Prophecy

Faith turns inward
and learns to speak softly.

Job trusts without explanation.
Psalms sing faith while waiting.
Proverbs train faith for daily steps.
Ecclesiastes strips faith of illusion
until only God remains—
and God is enough.

Then prophets rise—
made of thunder and tears.

They hear.
They trust.
They speak.
They suffer.
They wait.

The just shall live by faith—
a sentence heavy enough
to anchor centuries.

They stand on the ladder for others,
calling a people back
to the Voice they first heard.

The Gospel

The ladder is no longer only climbed.
It is walked.

The Word draws near enough to touch,
near enough to reject,
near enough to crucify.

He hears the Father.
He chooses heaven’s will.
He walks without sight’s comfort.
He obeys unto death.
He endures contradiction.
He rises.

In the garden, sorrow tastes like iron:
Not my will,
but Thine.

Love is not sentiment here.
Love is blood.
Devotion is not mood.
Devotion is obedience that remains.

The Spirit is promised—
not as ornament,
but as indwelling fire:
to remind,
to comfort,
to empower,
to seal.

The Church

The story widens.

Wind and footsteps.
Prisons and hymns at midnight.
Blood soaking earth that will not forget.

Faith becomes public light.

Letters are written—
not as cold instruction,
but as living explanation.

What Genesis lived
is now proclaimed.

They saw promises afar off
and embraced them.

Not all received in their lifetime,
yet all lived as though the Author
would finish the sentence.

You stand among them.

Not behind them.
Not outside the story.

On the same ladder.
Under the same Voice.

Fulfillment

Now we see through a glass darkly.
Then—face to face.

God dwells with man.
Tears loosen their grip.
Death loses its claim.

There remains a rest—
not idleness,
but completion.

The final rung is not height,
but home.

Light without burn.
Music without end.
Bread without scarcity.
Presence without withdrawal.

Shalom.

EPILOGUE: The Secret of Faith

This is the secret you have uncovered:

Faith is not a trick.
Faith is fidelity to the living God
whose voice does not change.

Hearing.
Choosing.
Trusting.
Obeying.
Enduring.
Seeing.
Resting.

Across centuries, cultures, covenants—
the pattern does not evolve
because the Author does not change.

One Author.
Many pens.

And when He speaks,
something in you rises and answers:

Hineni.
Here I am.

Amen.