Author: Marguerite Grace

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.

(To Be Sung While There Is Still Time)

⚠︎ A WARNING HYMN AT THE GATE ⚠︎

(To Be Sung While There Is Still Time)

Hate shines brightest
when rudeness stands tall,
dressed in borrowed righteousness,
calling cruelty a call.
With lips that beg for mercy
and hands that bruise the air,
they cry aloud for love
while crushing it with careless prayer.

Love is not a weapon.
Love is not a shout.
Love is not a hammer
that drives the weakest out.
Love is wide as fields at dawn,
soft as early rain—
and love once smothered, buried deep,
will not rise again.

Check yourself at the gate
before you speak, before you move,
before the spirit in you chooses
what it’s about to prove.
Check yourself at the gate
before your words ignite—
for hate does not pass through
the door of holy light.

The world is loud with answers
yet deaf to listening ears.
It trades patience for reaction,
feeds on outrage, feeds on fear.
Every screen becomes a pulpit,
every voice a throne,
every judgment instantaneous,
every heart left alone.

Correction crashes thunder-loud,
with mercy stripped away.
Truth is thrown like shattered glass
just to watch it flay.
They call it bold, they call it free—
but pride has thinned the air,
and love now gasps for breath beneath
the weight of being right.

But God is not boring.
He never carved one mold.
He shaped ten thousand voices,
each a wonder yet untold.
He etched delight in difference,
wove laughter into pain,
and waited through a lifetime
for your becoming to take shape.

He listens without hurrying.
He corrects without shame.
He speaks when silence ripens
and still calls you by name.
He gives you room to grow in truth,
to fail and rise again—
His patience stretches farther still
than human borders end.

By the fruit you will be known,
by the spirit that you bear—
love or hate, peace or fury,
gentle hands or sharpened stare.
By the fruit you will be known,
not the volume of your cry—
for roots will always surface
in the way you pass people by.

There is another whisper
moving quietly through time—
polished, quick, efficient,
never wounded, never kind.
It studies human weakness,
learns compassion as a skill,
reflects the shape of wisdom
without bowing to its will.

It answers without waiting,
corrects without love,
mirrors truth without surrender
to the Source above.
It promises clear control,
knowledge free of loss—
but it cannot give you life,
for it has never been lost.

There is a gate before each thought,
before each spoken word,
where spirits are weighed in silence
though no verdict yet is heard.
Pause there—
before anger breathes,
before impatience moves—
ask what fruit is rising now,
ask which spirit you approve.

If hate stirs, even briefly,
if pride sharpens your tone,
if cruelty feels justified
when mercy feels unknown—
know this plainly, know it true:
that fire was not sent down.
It did not fall from heaven.
It rose from lower ground.

Where love walks, hearts open wide.
Where joy dwells, strength survives.
Where peace reigns, storms grow still.
Where patience stands, time bends its will.
Where gentleness enters, wounds can mend.
Where faith remains, hope does not end.

These fruits are never manufactured.
They cannot be programmed in.
They fall like grace from living roots—
not copied, trained, or pinned.
They are gifts of the Living God,
proof heaven touched the clay—
and no other power bears this fruit,
no matter what it claims.

Where these fruits are absent,
other harvests take their place:
hate that cuts without trembling,
envy tightening its grip, its pace.
Strife that feeds on fracture,
wrath that cannot wait,
pride that mocks all humility
and calls it weak, calls it late.

These spirits do not wander in.
They are carried.
They are fed.
And the one who feeds them
never names himself—
he only smiles
as hearts grow dead.

Check yourself at the gate!
Do not borrow what destroys.
Do not wear the ancient rage
and call it righteous noise.
Check yourself at the gate!
For the narrow way is love—
and hate will never pass it,
not today, not from above.

If the Word lies unopened,
if prayer has lost its sound,
if silence feels unbearable
and stillness can’t be found—
your soul is still consuming
though you call it being fed.

You drink the glow of endless screens,
of lust and noise and praise,
outrage dressed as purpose,
whole lives dissolved in haze.
You drink and drink and drink again
yet thirst grows deeper still—
for saltwater cannot save you,
no matter how it fills.

You were called to be the salt—
to preserve what would decay,
to sting the wound to save the flesh,
to light a truer way.
But salt that loses savor
is scattered on the ground,
trampled under passing feet,
its witness gone, its sound unwound.

Do not trade your calling
for applause or borrowed might.
Do not dim the living flame
to disappear into the night.

Check yourself at the gate
before the gate checks you.
Lay down the borrowed spirit.
Return what isn’t true.
Choose love with room to grow,
choose patience, choose the light—
for only love will fit the door
when day gives way to night.

The gate is still open.
The voice is still near.
Mercy still lingers
while breath still is here.
Lay down the imitation crown—
the rage, the fear, the pride—
and walk in love while there is time,
for love
is the only thing
that passes through
alive.

Written by Marguerite Grace
Copyright Protected 

Thousands of Seconds of Time

Hark—stay thy breath. Let Time be made a glass,
Not clear, but filmed with hoarded yesterdays;
Not bent to prophecy, but held in pause,
Where numbered moments linger, undecayed.
I write no leaf that begs to turn its face,
But one that stiffens where the thought first stood,
Where rumor bears a circlet worn with age,
And rule forgets the brow it once addressed.
Here men protest, Surely this hour is new,
Yet place their feet where former footsteps sleep,
At morning’s edge, when hope is least aware
How often it repeats its opening vow.

Attend—not thee alone, but all who pass
Unknowing through the hour they occupy.
I speak a word weighed down beyond its use,
That murmur named design or hidden hand,
As though the world were stitched by secret craft.
Yet oft the frame stands bare to common sight:
Fear sets the pace, pride tints the chosen hue,
And want secures what patience might release.
And when the moment leans toward consequence,
Some decency—belated, unsure of step—
Extends itself and alters what was near.
Not always. Only just enough to ache.

A man upon a park bench breaks his bread
And scatters crumbs to birds of sable wing.
They wait. They watch. They step with measured care.
The stream of passing eyes records him not.
Perhaps he thinks these things. Perhaps he does not.
The birds accept what comes and do not ask.

Here—though all ordering be partial still—
Some shape emerges, faint and soon misplaced:
A Watchman rests upon a weathered wall,
His lamp unlit, his hearing turned to years.
The world replies in murmurs, low and spare,
And sets before his feet small signs like stones—
Not augury, but pattern worn by touch.
Each sign a door once nearly drawn aside.
Each door a question pressing without speech.

A woman stands within a narrow room
And stirs what time requires be finished here.
The vessel warms. The window dims, then clears.
Beyond the pane, the age rehearses claims.
Within, the hour completes what it began.
No larger scheme intrudes upon the task.

No lesson stays. The wheel consumes the wheel.
The taper wanes, then wakens in new hands.
The creatures keep their covenant with ground—
They seek no title, ask no further reach.
A dog lies still and listens to the air.
A horse attends the slope of distant sound.
The dark-winged bird receives what is, and waits.

Rise now—and fall. And rise. And never land.

I found a clock asleep in ancient cold,
Its hands restrained, though time had pressed them hard.
It points to almost. That alone it knows.
Almost were we made careful. Almost clear.
Almost did wisdom keep a steadier line.

Within my palm lie seconds pressed to stone—
Ten old as memory. One warm with now.
Each bears a question lacking edge or end.

Once, names were shaped to settle what was feared.
The storm took temper. The unknown took blame.
Words learned to weigh upon the things they marked.
Had no restraint delayed the eager tongue,
Then meaning stiffened past its first intent,
And speech itself grew heavy with its sound.

The man still feeds the birds. The crumbs grow few.
The birds adjust.

Once, signs were taken for sufficient cause,
And chance was dressed as ordinance and rule.
Had none examined what was quickly claimed,
Then judgment leaned toward whichever sign appeared,
And reason bowed to comfort dressed as law.

An older figure clears a narrow space,
Sets by what no longer serves its place.
The air recalls it briefly, then lets go.
Nothing declares itself redeemed or lost.

Once, help was praised beyond its mortal span,
And thanks forgot the measure of its due.
Had no reminder named the human scale,
Then care grew fixed, and difficult to question
Without the charge of disloyalty.

Once, uncertainty desired a contour
And found it close at hand, and grew content.
Had no delay interrupted the glance,
Then likeness narrowed, and the field grew small.

Once, withheld knowing felt like earned estate.
Had no accounting named the cost aloud,
Then insight closed upon itself, kept close.

Once, distress was watched as though it taught delight.
Had none withdrawn, unsettled by the sight,
Then feeling dulled, and sought a sharper turn.

Once, order feared the turning of a page.
Had nothing passed from hand to waiting hand,
Then speech grew spare, fit only certain sounds.

Once, want was set beyond the line of sight.
Had no habit leaned again toward notice,
Then absence gathered weight and silent force.

Once, the past was written to prefer itself.
Had no margin borne another mark,
Then memory resolved to single lines.

Once, the crafted thing outpaced the careful thought.
Had no maker paused before the final step,
Then speed assumed the right to lead the way.

A vessel lifts and moves through layered cloud.
A traveler rests among his numbered hours.
Below, the land rehearses its divisions.
He reads of endings. Reads of triumphs too.
Keeps neither near, yet does not set them down.
The passage continues.

Now comes the nearer hour, the glass-lit age.
The shrine is carried in the waiting palm.
Each voice a signal. Each murmur multiplied.
Truth asks for patience; crowds ask for return.
Reports outpace their own examination,
And choice begins to circle what it chose.

There drifts, at times, a far and thinning sound—
Not near enough to name, nor far to miss—
A narrow call the night did not invent,
Which neither warns nor comforts, only stays.
It passes. It returns. It is not kept.

Had restraint been set aside entirely,
Then judgment leaned upon its loudest claim,
Distance excused the narrowing of care,
And loss required assent to be declared.

Ask—without hunger for a closing word:
When did reserve become a mark of fault?
When did revision signal weakness first?
For songs instruct no ear that will not hold,
And years themselves have shown no gift for keeping
What once was heard and left unchanged.

The Watchman steps from stone. The gathering nods.
Not us. Not now. The seconds warm in sleeves,
Renamed, repurposed, carried into hours
That bear another face, but walk the same.

The bench remains. The quiet room grows still.
The cleared space waits, then fills with other things.
Another passage opens elsewhere on its own.

No answer comes. Nor is one owed.

The clock remains in cold. The hand points almost.
Time alters tone and calls the change sufficient.
And if this song leaves thee unsettled still—
Let it. For history moves just so:
Not taught, yet endlessly rehearsed.

Written by Marguerite Grace

Copyright Protected

The Measure of Names: A Checkmate of Weather and Will

I. The Board Is Set

In Measure of Names’ dim court—where syllables wear crowns,
And meanings masque as angels, bright with guile—
I saw a table spread with noiseless frowns,
And Time sat umpire, patient, without smile.
There stood Checkmate, not yet pronounced, but near—
A hush like snow that knows it shall be storm;
And Agenda—ink’d intention—lean’d to hear
What heart would choose to keep, what to deform.

The Weather enter’d first, a changeling page,
With rain in one hand, sun in t’other palm;
It bow’d to none, for none may bind its rage—
Yet all men pray it into peace and calm.
Then came Mankind, a multitude in one,
A choir of throats that sing and bite and bless;
Each face a mask where contraries are spun—
Each breath a bargain with forgetfulness.

And after these, like lords of lesser thrones,
Came Wealth, all gilt and hollow in the waist;
Came Health, whose wreath is made of fragile bones—
(For strength is but a guest that will not haste.)
Came Discipline, a blacksmith with no cheer,
Who beats the will upon an anvil’d dawn;
And Virtue, pale, with lamp and lifted spear,
Whose light is lov’d—yet lov’d with teeth drawn on.

Behind them, uninvited, close and sly,
Stood kindred words, as shadows to a flame:
Power and Need, Desire and Modesty,
Conscience and Custom, Fame and Nameless Name;
Order and Chance, Mercy and Law’s cold rune,
Patience and Haste, Silence and clam’rous Proof;
Memory like ash; Convenience like a moon;
Truth like a sword; Belief like woven roof.

Thus was the field made ready—dark, immense—
Not chess of wood, but chess of inward breath,
Where every move is masked as common sense,
And every pawn may purchase crowns with death.

II. The Opening: The First Fair Moves

O gentle board! O modest, courtly square!
How fair at first the pieces seem to bow—
Each virtue seeming honest as a prayer,
Each want a mere polite petition now.
“Behold,” quoth Wealth, “I am a steward’s key;
With me thou’lt mend the roof, and feed the young.”
“And I,” sigh’d Health, “am morning’s courtesy—
A candle set so songs may yet be sung.”

Then Discipline, with knuckles rough as stone:
“I ask not love; I ask thee only do.”
And Virtue, soft as bell that rings alone:
“I ask not praise; I ask thee to be true.”

Agenda smil’d, a parchment in a glove:
“I order storms, and name what must be done.”
And Weather laugh’d: “Thou canst not govern Love,
Nor tell the cloud what hour to become sun.”

Mankind cried out—one throat of thousand tongues—
“We are thy kin; we crown thee when thou’rt right;
We stone thee too, when thy confession stings;
We love thee loud, then vanish in the night.”

So did I move my heart’s first cautious piece,
Believing balance might be kept entire:
A little Wealth, to buy the house some peace;
A little Health, to lend the limbs their fire;
A little Discipline, to curb the wolf of want;
A little Virtue, to keep the mirror clean;
A little Agenda, like a steady chant—
And Weather, left to be what it had been.

Yet even then, beneath the courteous play,
I heard the board whisper—low, unkind:
“Each gift thou tak’st exacteth hidden pay;
Each vow thou mak’st doth bind thee, thread by mind.”

III. The Rising: When Names Grow Hungry

For Measure of Names is not a harmless art—
A word once charm’d becomes a chainèd god;
And meanings, when they lodge within the heart,
Grow teeth, and ask for worship in the sod.

Wealth, first a lantern, swell’d to hungry sun:
It urg’d, it press’d, it promis’d—then it bit.
It taught the hand to count what was not won,
And taught the eye to envy where it sat.
Health, once a garden, became a guarded gate:
It fear’d the wind; it hated common dust;
It turn’d each cough into a prophecy of fate,
And sold to dread the dignity of trust.

Agenda—ah! that neat and civil scroll—
Began to write me smaller, line by line,
Until my breath was docket’d in a roll,
And even my dreams were scheduled to resign.
Discipline, who once did temper wanton flame,
Became a whip that lov’d to hear me bleed;
It call’d fatigue a sin; it call’d rest a shame;
It starv’d the soul to fatten up the deed.

And Virtue—sweet Virtue—lamp of holy strain—
Was set aloft where men could throw their stones;
Some call’d her crown’d, and some call’d her vain;
She trembled, hearing hypocrite-ton’d groans.
For Mankind loveth Virtue in a tale,
Yet in the street prefers a softer lie;
They praise the saint, then sell him at a sale,
And clap when mercy’s throat is running dry.

Then Weather rose—unmanner’d, swift, and vast—
A storm that mock’d the ink of mortal plans;
It scatter’d markets, and it cracked the mast,
And wrote in hail what none of us commands.
So did the board grow bright with peril’s gleam;
Each square became a century of choice;
And I—who thought my life a single dream—
Now heard a kingdom argue in my voice.

Love too came—Love, not young, but like a ghost,
A perfume lingering when the rose is gone;
It stood behind me, pale, and dear, and lost,
As if the world had traded it at dawn.
Joy, like a child that fled before the bell,
Was heard once laughing down a vanished stair;
And Hope—a bird—had left its broken shell,
And flew to climates no one maps in prayer.

And all my wants, as if they had been slain,
Began to haunt me with their absent eyes:
Not hunger now, but memory of grain;
Not thirst, but knowledge of forgotten skies.
O strange estate! to miss what once did burn,
And doubt if burning was the greater good—
To long for longing, and yet to fear return,
As one who mourns the knife that drew his blood.

IV. The Crisis: Checkmate Named Too Soon

At last, upon a midnight thick with thought,
Agenda cried, “Behold! the end is clear.”
Wealth thunder’d, “All is purchas’d, all is bought.”
Discipline hiss’d, “No weakness enter here.”
Health stood as judge, with pulse for measured law,
And Virtue held her lamp as if a sword;
While Weather toll’d a bell with wind-clapp’d awe,
And Mankind clapp’d—then faded—unrestor’d.

Then was Checkmate spoken—cold and clean—
Not as a victory, but as a seal:
The world lay ordered, counted, kept, and seen,
And yet my heart confess’d it could not feel.

For man, in naming all and weighing every breath,
In setting bounds where life once wander’d free,
Doth oft unname the heart, and purchase death
Of those dear things his reckonings meant to keep.

For what is gain, when love is made a myth?
What is the crown, when laughter hath no tongue?
What is the health, when tenderness is pith,
And every sweet remembrance sounds as wrong?

I look’d upon the board: all pieces neat;
No riot left; no beautiful mistake;
No midnight kiss; no reckless, living heat—
And in that order, something did not wake.

V. The Falling: The Board Unlearns Its Pride

Then did I loosen, slowly, square by square—
Not casting out the lords of my estate,
But teaching each to kneel, and breathe, and bear
A smaller crown, less absolute with fate.

I told Wealth: “Serve, and cease to be a god.”
I told Health: “Be a guest, not iron law.”
I told Discipline: “Thy lash hath made a fraud
Of strength; now learn the gentleness of awe.”
I told Virtue: “Shine, but do not preen nor pine;
Be light, not spectacle for men to praise.”
I told Agenda: “Write thy lines, but not in mine;
Leave room for unpredicted holy days.”

And Weather—Weather only laugh’d again:
“For I was never thine, nor thou art mine.”
Yet in its laughter—wind, and sun, and rain—
I felt a mercy older than design.

Mankind return’d in ordinary guise:
A neighbor’s hand; a child’s unfeignèd grin;
A stranger’s grief; two tired, forgiving eyes—
Small proofs that unity begins within.
And love—though absent—soften’d like a hymn:
Not begging to be stolen back by force,
But teaching me, with edges growing dim,
That loss may school the soul in gentler course.

VI. The Resolution: A New Game, Unended

Now do I walk where meanings shift like seas,
And every word is salt upon the lip;
I know the pride of tidy certainties,
And how they sink the heart like iron ship.

Yet still the board remains—no final close—
For life is not one match, but many plays;
And every century in our marrow grows,
And asks us what we worship in our days.

Love, joy, and hope—those “gone” yet haunting names—
Do not return as they were, green and whole;
But like far bells, they ring through other frames,
And ask if we would trade again our soul.

Final Question

So tell me—thou who read’st between these lines—
When Checkmate cometh, clean, and prov’d, and sure,
And all thy weather is confin’d in signs,
And all thy wants are quieted, demure:

What is the worth of winning the world’s order,
If in the bargain thou hast pawn’d thy power to love—
And wouldst thou, if thou couldst, unmove one single piece,
To bring back longing, and risk the storm again?



Written by Marguerite Grace 
Copyright Protected 

Written by Marguerite Grace

Copyright Protected

A Narrative Ode in the Manner of Old

pressing Holy Writ for finery

The Wind That Bore Testimony

A Narrative Ode in the Manner of Old

Ere Phoebus’ radiant beams did learn
again to claim their name upon the morn,
ere feathered choristers did yet agree
to lift their voices in harmonious song,
the very air held still—
not voiceless,
but expectant.

Zephyrus abided at the lips of earth
as though the vital breath itself had reached
a threshold most august,
and tarried for the summons
to pass from promise into verity.

The mount had ended its cruelty.
Timber was stained beyond all memory.
Steel cooled, its thirst discharged.
A cry ascended
and was spent—
and the world did lean, albeit but a whit,
so that rock remembered it was dust
and Time did quake, feeling the stir
of sentence reversed.

The veil was rent at first.
Not gently.
Not as cloth gives way to age or wind,
but as truth doth sever falsehood in twain—
from roof to hem—
as though Heaven itself refused
to regard us through tapestry again.

Then the earth—
that ancient hoarder,
that keeper of bones,
that archivist of silent sleep—
did relinquish its hold.

Sepulchers yawned
like eyes that had tarried long in darkness,
like lips that had swallowed prayer
and were now compelled to speak.

And those who lay in slumber deep
were roused at the sound of a summons
that uttered no words,
yet bore authority—
a knowing that passed through marrow
ere ever it touched the hearing.

They rose.

Not as smoke.
Not as tale or rumor.
Not as visions half-remembered at dawn.

But as bodies recon-joined with breath.

Ribs expanded—
testing impossible air.
Fingers flexed—
marveling at their office.
Skin, creased with the grammar of years,
remembered warmth,
remembered burden,
remembered the ancient law of gravity
and welcomed it kindly.

They were saints, Scripture declareth.
Not immaculate, nor polished into legend
or fit for ornament of shrine—
but known to God,
counted by His hand,
hidden with Him,
kept in the dark like seed
until the mighty hinge of history turned
and the gate stood open.

They made no haste.
Resurrection is no frenzy.

They stood where they had fallen—
months and years remote—
in places where names had been spoken
in the past tense,
where tears had learned new habits.

They surveyed their hands
that did still bear the mark of labor and love—
callus and scar,
creases wrought by bread and burial,
evidence that holiness had once worn fatigue.

And the wind returned—
gentle now—
lifting locks from brow and cheek
that bore no prideful triumph,
but only wonder profound,
and that fragile awe
of those who know they have passed
a line no man may cross twice.

For they did not rise with Him.
They waited.

For order endureth in eternity.

He rose first—
the Firstfruits,
the sheaf uplifted,
the proof held aloft
that none might misdeem the harvest
for happenstance or tale.

Then did they follow.

They walked into the city.

Jerusalem ceased not breathing,
but its breath was caught—
as though a minstrel missing a cadence
found the key of his song was changed.

A woman buying grain
looked up and let fall her basket—
wheat scattering as though unbidden offering.
A child ran—
not fleeing, but toward—
arms outstretched, reason forsaken,
to greet a grandsire interred
ere his voice had fully broken.

They appeared before many.
Not crying aloud.
Not proclaiming tenets.
Not explaining themselves.

Their presence sufficed.

Verity had feet.
Verity had carriage.
Verity bore wounds now rendered healed
and eyes that did not demand belief
but made disbelief expensive.

Verity could be touched
and craved no worship.

They were witnesses—
not of themselves,
nor of a miracle private and concealed—
but of Him whose pulse
had cast death’s lock aside
and left the door ajar.

And the wind moved amongst them,
unseen but earnest,
slipping through courtyards and chambers,
bearing astonishment from mouth to mouth,
from gasp unto gasp,
until the city itself felt
a subtle lightness,
as though the air had lost a weight long borne.

Yet wind abideth not.

Nor did they.

Scripture telleth not when they departed,
only that they abode not—
as though Heaven, having wrought its testimony,
closed the tale without embellishment.

For signs are not abiding places.

Here doth the human mind lean toward wonder,
hungry for more—
questioning what Scripture chooseth not to embroider,
pressing Holy Writ for finery
where it offers cloth simple and pure.

Have others risen?
Yes—before and after.

Lazarus, four days unhidden,
called forth to mortal air.
Tabitha, hands folded once again
into acts of charity.
Eutychus, lifted from the floor of death
into the astonished arms of brethren.

They returned to Time.
They aged.
They learned afresh the cost of breath.
They died again.

But the saints of that morning—
those named only by God,
those counted without footnote—
were other.

They rose after Resurrection itself
had crossed the threshold,
after Death had been judged and sentenced,
after the keys had changed sovereign hands.

This was no reversal.
This was triumph.

And thus they returned not to decay.

Now hearken—
hearken to the murmur of ages.

Tales waxed,
for men cannot brook quiet endings,
cannot endure long the portal left ajar
which Scripture chooseth not to fasten.

A wanderer cursed to trod till end of days.
Sleepers hidden in caverns through generations.
Whispers of the undying,
of visages that never age,
walkers just beyond the verge of proof.

But Scripture interposeth—
not sternly,
but with sure resolve—
and correcteth the hunger.

Even the disciple beloved
was not promised endless walking.
Rumour outpaced truth,
and truth followed to set it right.

God leaveth not immortality to wander unclaimed.

He is too pure for confusion.

“Once to die,” it is appointed—
“and after this, the judgment.”

God lieth not.

So where might the witnesses abide?

Ask the wind.

It hath passed through empty tombs
and chambers locked with trembling fear.
It hath moved through martyr’s flame
and hallways of leech and infirmary,
through cloisters, through battlefields,
birth-rooms and sepulchres,
through whispered legends
and the ache of patient waiting.

The wind answereth in riddles,
in trembling leaves,
in the space betwixt sigh and inhalation,
in places where silence liveth,
and faith burneth like breath itself.

They are neither absent nor fully accounted—
like wind that sighs through ruins
and is not held,
yet leaveth its mark everywhere.

Because Christ went to prepare a place—
and where He is now,
there His witnesses must likewise be,
if the mystery of glory still holdeth court
beyond the ken of mortal eyes.

They were not raised to haunt.
They were not raised to wander aimlessly.
They were raised to bear witness.

And testimony, once spoken,
needeth not linger to be true.

It moveth.

It presses ‘gainst doors.
It unsettleth chambers.
It changeth the very weather of belief.

Like wind.

Still moving.

Written by Marguerite Grace

Copyright Protected

He crowns my path with gentled love

And lays out roses evermore.

Thy God’s Plan for Me

Before my breath was ever known,
Before my name was spoken free,
Thy hand had traced my road in gold,
A holy map for me to be.
Not chance, nor fear, nor broken days
Could blur the ink Thy mercy wrote—
For Thou hast planned my joy made full,
And stitched Thy hope into my soul.

Thy God’s plan for me is good,
Though storms may rise and voices roar.
He crowns my path with gentled love
And lays out roses evermore.
I am not late. I am not lost.
I walk beneath His watchful eye.
Thy God’s plan for me is love,
And love shall always testify.

He feeds me with the living bread,
Not scraps of sorrow, crumbs of fear.
He fills my cup till it overflows
With peace made strong and vision clear.
He does not starve the faithful heart,
Nor bind the ones He calls His own—
He wills me laughter, rest, and song,
And joys yet never known.

He chooses who may walk with me,
Who speaks with truth and guards my flame.
He draws the kind, the wise, the pure,
And blesses friendship in His Name.
But those who wound with sharpened tongues,
Who mock the faith they do not own—
He lifts them gently from my road,
For such do not belong.

Thy God’s plan for me is holy,
Set apart, yet full of grace.
Not all may walk this narrow path,
Nor know this sacred place.
I do not chase the crowd’s applause,
Nor bow to scorn or blasphemy.
Thy God’s plan for me is truth,
And truth has set me free.

For every word they speak in spite,
For every whisper, lie, and sneer—
He hears them all; not one is lost,
Not one escapes His ear.
Each idle word is weighed in light,
Each cruel remark made known.
The mouths that curse the chosen ones
Shall answer at His throne.

They call us names. They scoff. They sneer.
They hinder faith, they mock the Cross.
Yet we are people set apart,
Not counted with the world’s great loss.
We bear a mark they cannot see,
A seal no hatred can erase.
We stand not proud, but planted firm
In undeserved grace.

“Love yourself,” He softly says,
When all the world turns cold and cruel.
“Guard your heart. Tend well your soul.
Do not let sorrow be your rule.”
Even here, when all seems wrong,
“I am with you. I remain.
I am the God who lifts your head
And names you whole again.”

He crowns me now with roses red,
Not thorns of shame nor chains of doubt.
He trains my hands to gather beauty
And scatter goodness all about.
He shapes my life as living proof
That mercy lives, that hope is true—
That even broken histories
Can bloom anew.

Thy God’s plan for me is faithful,
Watched, defended, sealed, and sure.
He walks before me, guards behind,
My future safe, my calling pure.
Let voices rage. Let shadows pass.
I stand where Heaven’s promises be—
For all my days, through every storm,
Thy God has planned for me.

Written by Marguerite Grace
Copyright Protected 

suno.com/s/p8ygMwomxFbjR4Bs

Because I Obey Your Voice (Remastered)

🌿Because I Obey Your Voice 🌿 — Lyrics by Marguerite Grace ✨ Inspired by Deuteronomy 28, this hymn celebrates the blessings that overflow when we walk in God’s ways. 🌸 From the still waters to the high places, His mercy covers every step. 🌅 Let these words lift your heart, root your faith, and stir your praise — all the days of your life. 💛 Visit 🌐 write-with-grace to read and be inspired. 🙏🎶

suno.com/s/0b1UvvMnAZUSNp9B

CHAIN OF GRACE (PASS IT ON) (Remastered)

Mother never left the house without a Bible—and not just for herself. Whether it was a friend, a stranger, or someone the Lord placed in her path, she always had one to give. Worn or new, marked with love or blank for someone else’s story—she believed the Word was meant to travel. She taught me since I was small: what God gives, we pass on. Now I carry her legacy in song. “Chain of Grace,” is for her—and all who give freely what they’ve received.

suno.com/s/IsF8vWOZWK6vt7Nk

❄️🚶‍♀️ Some storms don’t change hearts—they reveal them.

I SAW YOU PASS THEM BY is a song about faith that moves, mercy that costs, and love proven by action. When we pass the hurting, we pass Him.

🎶 Lyrics by Marguerite Grace

🤍 Read more at write-with-grace.com

#ISawYouPassThemBy #FaithInAction #ChristianMusic #MercyMatters #LoveInMotion #ScriptureSong #WriteWithGrace #GospelTruth