Author: Marguerite Grace

A call, not a trend. A mission, not religion.

https://suno.com/song/a6ad6062-4ff7-4882-b07e-bbea25fbc839

GO YE THEREFORE, AND TEACH ALL NATIONS ✝️🔥

A call, not a trend. A mission, not religion.

Same Jesus. Same gospel. Same command.

This song is my testimony—to follow Christ and make disciples of all nations. 🌍📖

🎶 GO YE THEREFORE, AND TEACH ALL NATIONS

✍️ Lyrics by Marguerite Grace

🌐 write-with-grace.com

#ChristianRap #GospelTruth #DiscipleLife #GreatCommission #FaithOverFear #JesusChrist

suno.com/s/TpNK4JjzUjMtlamk

🌿🎶 Maranatha — Bringing Our Hearts to Jesus 🎶🌿

A song written as prayer, repentance, and hope — a simple cry: Come, Lord Jesus.

Dedicated with love to Grandma 🤍

🕊️ Lyrics by Marguerite Grace

🌐 write-with-grace.com

#Maranatha #ComeLordJesus #OldTimeFaith #ChristianHymn #DedicatedToGrandma #WriteWithGrace #PrayerInSong ✨

A Canticle in Eight Acts with Interludes

The Missionary Child from Zion — The Rose-Gathering Canticle

A Canticle in Eight Acts with Interludes


IN PROLOGUE

Before the sun had learnt his golden trade,
Before the moon had hung her silver lamp,
Ere clocks had teeth, ere seasons had a name,
There was but Breath, and Word, and Will—אֱלֹהִים (Elohim)—“God.”
And in that hush, where nothing yet was “then,”
A child was set—no babe of flesh alone,
But purpose clothed in wonder’s mortal gown:
A maiden small, yet vast with borrowed hours,
Whose feet were shod with ages, not with dust.
From Zion’s height (though Zion yet slept unborn)
Her calling rang: הִנֵּנִי (Hineni)—“Here am I.”

Her name the scrolls write not; for she is sign,
A lamp to those who stumble in the dark.
She is The Missionary Child from Zion—
Not sent to change the tale, but tell it true;
To walk the corridors of holy time
And ask of every turning, every tear,
What God did speak, and what His people heard.

And still one question, like a pulse of fire,
Beat in her breast through all the whirling years:
“Where is the Anointed—where is Christ?
When shall the Promise stand with mortal feet,
And how shall man be made a new-made man?”

So let the curtain rise on beginnings.


ACT I — GENESIS: THE GARDEN, THE WOUND, THE ROAD

She saw the light break out as if a harp
Were struck by God, and darkness fled in shame.
The waters shivered, hearing “Let there be,”
And air was born with scent of newborn rain.
She tasted morning—clean as uncut fruit—
And heard the deep like drums beneath the world.

Then Eden: green so sharp it seemed to sing;
A river’s laugh; the cool of evening’s step
When God did walk. She watched the man, the woman,
Two candles set within a glass of peace.
The serpent’s whisper slid like oil on stone;
The bite rang loud though teeth made little sound—
And suddenly the garden knew of thorns.
She felt the first shame burn upon the skin,
The first hard gulp of sorrow in the throat,
And saw the flaming sword bar gentle gates.

She followed exile’s footprints into dusk,
Watched brother lift his hand against his blood—
And heard the ground cry out. She pressed her ear
To soil that drank a life it should not take.
She stood beside the ark when skies unbuckled,
When rain fell thick as judgment’s iron beads,
And smelled the pitch, the wet of frightened beasts,
The musk of survival in a floating world.
She saw the rainbow—God’s bright bow unstrung—
A painted oath across the washed-blue air.

Then Abram: star-eyed under desert frost.
She counted heavens with him, breath by breath.
A covenant cut; a promise stitched to time;
A child of laughter (Isaac) born of dust and grace.
She climbed the mount where knife and mercy met—
And heard the ram’s hooves scrape the bristled thorn.
“God will provide,” the air itself confessed.

She watched the wrestle in the midnight river,
When Jacob held and would not let God go—
And limped away with blessing like a bruise.
She walked with Joseph through a pit’s cold mouth,
Through prison’s stale, through Egypt’s perfumed courts,
To famine’s end, where forgiveness fed the world.

And all along, the child kept asking low:
“O Lord—Adonai—Thy promise, where doth walk?
Who is the Seed that crushes serpent’s head?”

Interlude of Roses — Genesis

Litany

CHILD: “My lord of clay, if I may beg but this—one single rose?”
ADAM: “I have but sweat and thistle—yet take what Eden left me.”
ROSE: A pale blush rose, dew-laden, with a faint green at the stem—like innocence remembering.

CHILD: “Mother of sorrows, grant me one rose—only one.”
EVE: “If I had kept the garden, I would give thee gardens. Take.”
ROSE: A white rose veined with soft gold, scented like crushed apple and twilight regret.

CHILD: “Sir, I ask no tale, no alms—only a rose.”
CAIN: “Wilt thou take from me?”
CHILD: “A rose may yet grow where blood hath fallen.”
ROSE: A dark maroon rose, almost black, velvet-petaled, smelling faintly of iron and smoke.

CHILD: “Gentle one, one rose—may I?”
ABEL: “Freely.”
ROSE: A soft lamb-white rose, small and trembling, with a honey-sweet fragrance.

CHILD: “Righteous sailor of judgment’s sea—one rose?”
NOAH: “After flood, all gifts are mercy. Take.”
ROSE: A rainwashed blue-lavender rose, cool-scented like wet cedar and clean earth.

CHILD: “Father of promise—one rose, I pray.”
ABRAHAM: “Child, the Lord provided the ram; He may provide thy rose.”
ROSE: A deep desert-sand rose, tawny and warm, edges kissed with crimson like altar-fire.

CHILD: “Beloved son of laughter—one rose?”
ISAAC: “If laughter lives, let it bloom.”
ROSE: A bright yellow rose, sunbold, with citrus perfume—joy surviving fear.

CHILD: “Prince who wrestled—one rose?”
JACOB: “Take it, little pilgrim; it is won by clinging.”
ROSE: A striped rose—cream and scarlet twisted together—like struggle braided into grace.

CHILD: “Dreamer and governor—one rose?”
JOSEPH: “For those who meant it ill—God meant it good. Take.”
ROSE: A royal purple rose, plush as velvet, smelling of myrrh and sweet wine.


ACT II — EXODUS TO DEUTERONOMY: SLAVERY’S CRY, THE SEA’S SPLIT HEART, THE LAW’S BRIGHT EDGE

She heard in Egypt bricks that thudded dull—
The sound of backs bent double under sun.
She tasted ash in mouths that dared to pray.
Then came a bush that burned yet would not die—
A flame like holiness that harms no leaf.
Moses removed his shoes; she felt the ground
As if it breathed: Most near, most otherworld.

Plagues marched like drums through Pharaoh’s granite will;
Frogs, gnats, and darkness thick as tarred despair.
She smelt the lamb’s warm blood on doorposts painted—
And heard the night-breath pass, the firstborn’s cry.
Bread rose not; haste was bitter on the tongue;
Yet freedom’s first taste cuts like sharp new wine.

The sea stood up like walls of startled glass;
She ran between them where the salt wind roared,
Where fish stared out like witnesses in blue.
Behind: the chariot’s rage; ahead: the dawn—
And then the waters fell like clapping hands,
And tyranny sank, gurgling, into silence.

In wilderness she heard the manna fall—
Soft as a hush, like dew with heaven’s scent.
She saw the rock give drink, the staff strike stone,
And thirst turn sweet upon a desert lip.
At Sinai lightning wrote with violent quills;
The mountain smoked; the people shook like reeds.
And God spoke Law—not chains, but a clean road:
“Hear, O Israel”—שְׁמַע יִשְׂרָאֵל (Sh’ma Yisra’el)—“Hear, O Israel.”

Yet in the camp, gold glittered like betrayal;
A calf, a dance, a faith grown thin and loud.
She watched the tablets shatter—thunder made to stone—
And felt the ache of love refused.

Through Leviticus, the blood of sacrifice
Steamed iron-sweet in air of tabernacle,
Not gore for gore, but shadow of a cure:
A holy lesson—sin is deathward deep,
Yet God makes way for sinners to draw near.

In Numbers, she walked circles of complaint,
Heard serpents hiss; saw bronze made healing sign;
Watched rebels swallowed by the yawning earth.
In Deuteronomy, Moses’ farewell shook,
A father’s voice on brink of promised land—
Then Nebo’s height; the last long look; the grave
Known only unto God.

And still her question grew a stronger wing:
“These lambs, these laws—what do they point unto?
Who is the Passover, the living Door?”

Interlude of Roses — Exodus to Deuteronomy

Litany

CHILD: “Great king—grant me one rose.”
PHARAOH: “A slave-girl’s whim?”
CHILD: “Nay—only a rose.”
ROSE: A hard, blood-red rose, glossy as lacquer, thorns sharp as pride, scent faintly bitter.

CHILD: “Lawgiver—one rose, if I may.”
MOSES: “Child, thou art tender; this desert bites. Yet take.”
ROSE: A scarlet-and-white rose, like fire rimmed with cloud, smelling of smoke and clean rain.

CHILD: “Priest of intercession—one rose?”
AARON: “For atonement’s sake, take it.”
ROSE: A snow-white rose with a faint crimson heart, like purity marked by mercy.

CHILD: “Captain of crossing—one rose?”
JOSHUA: “As the Lord bade, so shall I give.”
ROSE: A strong orange rose, sunrise-bright, smelling of crushed citrus and brave beginnings.


ACT III — JOSHUA TO ESTHER: LAND, KINGS, EXILE’S TEAR, AND HIDDEN HANDS

She watched the Jordan halt like startled time;
Its waters rose as if obeying breath.
Jericho’s walls fell down to trumpet-blast—
Not siege by steel, but praise that split the stone.

In Judges, she saw cycles like a wheel:
Sin, sorrow, cry, deliverance, then sin again—
A nation stumbling, yet not cast away.
She heard the strength of Samson snap like rope,
And Delilah’s soft betrayal in the dark.

Then Ruth: a gleaner in the barley’s gold;
She smelled the harvest, heard the gentle vow:
“Where thou goest, I will go.”
A foreign widow folded into grace—
A thread that led to kings.

In Samuel’s days, she heard the boy cry “Here”
Within the night where lamps were growing low.
Saul rose tall—then fell by disobedience.
David sang psalms that tasted salt and honey,
Fought giant fear with smooth and whistling stone,
Then sinned, then wept, then found mercy’s stern embrace.
Solomon’s wisdom flashed like polished bronze,
Yet his heart wandered after many loves.
The kingdom split like cloth torn down the seam.

Prophets thundered; idols clinked; the poor were crushed.
Elijah called down fire; she felt the heat
Scorch air like judgment. Yet in whisper small—
Not storm nor quake—God spoke a quieter flame.

Then exile: Babylon’s long iron song.
She sat by rivers where the harps hung mute,
And tasted tears that salted foreign bread.
In Daniel’s den she heard the lion’s breath—
Hot, beastly—yet restrained by unseen hand.
She smelled the furnace’ blaze where three men stood
And saw a fourth like “son of gods” beside them.

Esther—hidden courage in a royal hall—
Risked life with trembling poise: “If I perish…”
And deliverance came, though God’s Name stayed unspoken—
A mystery of providence behind the veil.

And still the child, now older in her eyes,
Would ask the night, would ask the shining day:
“If God is faithful, why this endless wound?
Where is the King whose reign makes hearts made whole?”

Interlude of Roses — Joshua to Esther

Litany

CHILD: “Strong one—one rose?”
SAMSON: “My hands break gates, yet could not guard my heart. Take.”
ROSE: A huge crimson rose, heavy-headed, smelling of musk and bruised pomegranate.

CHILD: “Lady—one rose, I pray thee.”
DELILAH: “Why should I?”
CHILD: “For nothing thou needst know.”
ROSE: A pale peach rose, deceptively sweet, fragrance like honey over a hidden blade.

CHILD: “Kind gleaner—one rose?”
RUTH: “If thou art hungry, child, take grain—and take the rose besides.”
ROSE: A soft coral rose, warm as hearthlight, smelling of bread and field-wind.

CHILD: “Prophet-child grown old—one rose?”
SAMUEL: “Speak, little one.”
CHILD: “Only: may I have a rose?”
SAMUEL: “Then take it, and keep thy listening heart.”
ROSE: A clear white rose with silver sheen, scent like olive blossom and clean linen.

CHILD: “O king—one rose?”
SAUL: “Wouldst thou take from me, who lost the favor I once held?”
CHILD: “A rose may be given even by a trembling hand.”
ROSE: A thorn-rich rose, red fading to rust, scent sharp like cedar-sap and regret.

CHILD: “Sweet psalmist—one rose?”
DAVID: “Take it—God desireth truth in inward parts.”
ROSE: A deep pink damask rose, perfume rich as song, with a salt note like weeping turned to worship.

CHILD: “Wise king—one rose?”
SOLOMON: “All is gift, child; wisdom too is borrowed. Take.”
ROSE: A golden-ivory rose, petals thick as parchment, scented with frankincense and cedar.

CHILD: “Prophet of flame—one rose?”
ELIJAH: “In the still small voice, child—there bloometh gentler things.”
ROSE: A bright scarlet rose edged with white, like fire kissed by whisper, scent like smoke and mint.

CHILD: “Faithful exile—one rose?”
DANIEL: “God shut the lions’ mouths; may He keep thy heart.”
ROSE: A midnight-blue rose (so dark it seems black) with a cool spice scent like star-anise and stone.

CHILD: “O steadfast ones—one rose each?”
THE THREE MEN: “We will not bow—yet we may give.”
ROSES: Three roses, each distinct: one pure white; one vivid orange; one red like molten ember—each smelling of clean air after fire.

CHILD: “Queen of courage—one rose?”
ESTHER: “If it be for life, I give it.”
CHILD: “It is for…a love thou needst not name.”
ROSE: A regal red-and-gold rose, petals like satin, scent like rosewater and trembling bravery.


ACT IV — JOB TO SONGS: WISDOM’S DEPTH, LOVE’S FIRE, AND PRAYERS LIKE LAMPS

In Job she heard the honest howl of man—
Cinder on the skin, questions like jagged glass:
“Why?”—that word that cuts the throat of peace.
And God replied—not petty explanation,
But whirlwind grandeur: seas, constellations, beasts—
The world too wide for small, proud certainty.
Job bowed, and found that mystery can be mercy,
And dust may yet be held by holy hands.

In Psalms, the child drank music like cool water:
“Lord is my shepherd”—green pastures in her mind;
“Out of the depths”—a sob turned into prayer;
“Hallelujah”—praise like bells in storm.
In Proverbs, wisdom called in city streets;
In Ecclesiastes, vanity wore a crown;
In Songs, love burned like coals that none can quench—
A hint of greater Love that would not fail.

Her question changed its clothing, yet stayed one:
“How shall the Holy dwell with broken ones?
How shall the heart be washed, not merely warned?”

Interlude of Roses — Wisdom Books

Litany

CHILD: “Sufferer—one rose?”
JOB: “Though He slay me—yet will I trust. Take.”
ROSE: A smoke-gray rose touched with lavender, scent like rain on dust—lament softened into faith.

CHILD: “O songs of Zion—grant me one rose.”
THE SONGS: “Take praise, take ache, take hallelujah.”
ROSE: A many-petaled pink rose, layered like harmonies, fragrance like honeyed breath and salt tears.

CHILD: “Lady Wisdom—one rose?”
WISDOM: “Choose me, child, above rubies.”
ROSE: A clear apricot rose with copper edges, scent like ripe fig and warm parchment.

CHILD: “O love—one rose?”
LOVE: “Set me as a seal upon thine heart.”
ROSE: A lush crimson rose with a velvet black center, scent intoxicating—wine, spice, and longing.


ACT V — ISAIAH TO MALACHI: PROMISE SHARPENS, SILENCE GATHERS

Isaiah opened like a temple door—
She saw the throne, the seraphim’s bright cry:
“קָדוֹשׁ, קָדוֹשׁ, קָדוֹשׁ”—Kadosh, Kadosh, Kadosh—
‏And felt her own uncleanliness like smoke.
‏Then promise poured: a virgin, a child, a name—
‏Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Prince of Peace;
‏A servant wounded, pierced, rejected, crushed—
‏Yet bearing many, healing by His stripes.
‏She trembled, tasting prophecy like iron.

‏Jeremiah wept—his tears were stones of truth.
‏He spoke of a New Covenant written not on rock
‏But on the heart. Ezekiel saw wheels
‏And heard of bones made flesh by Spirit’s breath—
‏A valley singing life where death had camped.
‏Hosea lived the ache of faithful love
‏Chasing a wandering bride.

‏Jonah ran—she smiled at that wild flight—
‏Yet mercy chased him to the deep’s dark throat,
‏And Nineveh repented. Micah spoke it plain:
‏Do justice; love mercy; walk humbly with thy God.

‏Then Malachi—last prophet’s closing chord—
‏A promise: one will come to turn the hearts;
‏A messenger will clear the coming way.
‏And after that—a silence long and thick,
‏Four hundred years where scripture’s ink lay still.
‏The child walked through that hush as through cold fog,
‏Hearing in absence the loud ache of longing.

‏Now her one question blazed as bright as dawn:
‏“Is He at hand? Will God Himself draw near?
‏Will Word take flesh—and if He comes…where?”

Interlude of Roses — The Prophets

Litany

CHILD: “Seer of holiness—one rose?”
ISAIAH: “Here is thy sign: the Lord shall comfort. Take.”
ROSE: A pure white rose edged in crimson, scent like smoke and lilies—purity and sacrifice in one.

CHILD: “Weeping prophet—one rose?”
JEREMIAH: “My eyes run down with rivers. Yet take.”
ROSE: A soft violet rose, drooping slightly, fragrance like wet stone and mourning incense.

CHILD: “Watchman—one rose?”
EZEKIEL: “The heart of stone shall be made flesh. Take.”
ROSE: A strange green rose (pale jade), crisp-scented like fresh herbs—new heart, new breath.

CHILD: “O steadfast visions—one rose.”
VISION: “The Most High ruleth.”
ROSE: A starry-speckled white rose, as if dusted with night, scent like cool myrrh.

CHILD: “Husband of sorrow—one rose?”
HOSEA: “Love that returns is God’s own parable. Take.”
ROSE: A soft red rose with a torn-looking edge, yet fragrant—rosewater and salt—love that bleeds and stays.

CHILD: “Runaway prophet—one rose?”
JONAH: “Mercy swallowed me and spat me back. Take.”
ROSE: A sea-foam pale rose, almost pearl, scent like brine and clean wind.

CHILD: “Speaker of justice—one rose?”
MICAH: “Walk humbly.”
ROSE: A simple wild rose, pink and open-faced, scent like sunwarmed grass and honesty.

CHILD: “Last herald—one rose?”
MALACHI: “He cometh—prepare.”
ROSE: A deep ember-orange rose, glowing at the edges, scent like cinnamon and coming dawn.


ACT VI — THE GOSPELS: THE FACE SHE SEEKS, AT LAST IN DUST AND BREATH

Then—Bethlehem.
Not marble halls, but stable’s sour hay;
Warm animal breath; the sweet, sharp milk of life;
A mother’s groan; the cry that split the night.
She heard the angels tear the sky with song,
And shepherds come with mud upon their heels.
A star stood still like heaven holding breath.
Magi bowed, and frankincense bit the air.

A tyrant raged; children were slaughtered—
Her stomach clenched; her tears ran hot and fast.
Yet flight to Egypt saved the promised Child,
And prophecy folded in on prophecy.

Jordan’s waters kissed the carpenter’s bare feet.
The heavens opened; Spirit dove like peace;
A voice: “My Son beloved.”
And in the wilderness the tempter came—
Not with horns, but with clever words and hunger—
Yet Christ stood firm; the bread of God prevailed.

She followed Him through villages of ache:
Blind eyes opened like windows at sunrise;
Lepers, once rot and loneliness, were touched—
And touch was medicine. She heard demoniacs
Scream as darkness fled. She watched the widow’s son
Sit up and breathe, as death forgot its name.
She heard Him say, “Thy sins be forgiven”—
And felt the scandal and the mercy clash.

He ate with sinners; Pharisees grew sharp;
He told of seeds and pearls, of sons who ran,
Of fathers who ran faster.
He stilled the storm; the sea obeyed like dog
That knows its master’s step. He fed the crowds—
Five loaves, two fish—and fullness overflowed.
On holy mount, His face became a sun;
His garments shone; Moses and Elijah spoke—
And awe fell heavy as a mantle on the air.

And still the Missionary Child would ask Him—
Not doubting now, but hungering to know:
“Why come this way—through sorrow, dust, and blood?
What is Thy mission, Lord—what art Thou here to do?”

Then came the week where palm leaves kissed the road,
Hosannas loud as waterfalls in spring—
Yet underneath, betrayal warmed its knives.
A supper room: bread broke like body soon;
Wine dark as coming pain; a basin, towel—
The King kneeling to wash unworthy feet.
“Love one another.”
Outside: Gethsemane—olive trees like witnesses,
Night thick with prayer pressed out like oil.
He sweat like blood; the child could taste the fear
Metallic in the air.

Judas’ kiss. The torches. The false witness.
The rooster’s cry that broke bold Peter’s heart.
The lash. The crown of thorns. The Via Dolorosa—
Stones underfoot slick with spit and shame.
Nails rang like hammers in the skull of earth.
The sky went dark at noon.
She heard Him cry (Aramaic torn from depth):
אֵלִי אֵלִי לָמָה שְׁבַקְתַּנִי (Eli, Eli, lama sh’vaqtani)—“My God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me?”
‏She smelled the vinegar; she heard the jeers;
‏She watched the curtain of the temple tear—
‏As if God ripped the barrier Himself.
‏And then: “It is finished.”
‏A spear. Water and blood.
‏A borrowed tomb, cold as unanswered grief.

‏Here is the climax, the turning of all worlds:
‏The child fell down, her question cracking open—
‏Not “Where is Christ?” but “What is love?”
‏And love answered with a cross.

‏But dawn returned with shock of rolling stone—
‏A quake; guards like dead men; graveclothes left behind
‏Like shed-off winter.
‏“Mary,” He spoke—one word that made her weep.
‏He ate; He walked; He showed His wounded hands—
‏Not hiding scars, but crowning them with peace.
‏To Thomas: “Touch and see.”
‏To all: “Go—make disciples.”

‏Then, lifting from their sight, He rose—
‏And angels said He would return again.

‏The Missionary Child, trembling with bright tears,
‏At last knew what her mission always was:
‏To bear true witness—book by book, breath by breath—
‏That every road of Scripture leads to Him;
‏That sacrifice and kingdom, exile and return,
‏Are threads that bind the world unto the Christ.

Interlude of Roses — The Gospels

Litany

CHILD: “Blessed woman—may I ask one rose?”
MARY (mother): “Little one, what lack’st thou?”
CHILD: “Only a rose.” (Her voice breaks like thin glass.)
ROSE: A pure white rose with a blush-pink heart, fragrance like warm bread and lullaby tears.

CHILD: “Good sir—one rose?”
JOSEPH (guardian): “I am but keeper; yet take.”
ROSE: A modest cream rose, sturdy stem, scent like cedar shavings and honest labor.

CHILD: “Fathers of the field—one rose?”
SHEPHERDS: “We have but praise—yet take.”
ROSE: A wild dog-rose, soft pink, open and starry, scent like grass and night air.

CHILD: “Wise travelers—one rose?”
MAGI: “Thou ask’st a small thing—take it.”
ROSE: A rich red rose dusted with gold pollen, scent like frankincense and distant roads.

CHILD: “King—may I ask one rose?”
HEROD: “Why?”
CHILD: “For nothing I will tell.”
ROSE: A harsh crimson rose with jagged thorns, scent thin and sharp—like power rotting at the root.

CHILD: “Voice in wilderness—one rose?”
JOHN THE BAPTIST: “He must increase.”
ROSE: A simple white rose with a blue tint at the edge, scent like river-water and repentance.

CHILD: “Sir—one rose?”
JUDAS: “Dost thou mock me?”
CHILD: “Nay. I am only…hungry to gather beauty.”
ROSE: A sickly pale rose streaked with gray, scent faint—like perfume spilled on cold stone.

CHILD: “Fisher—one rose?”
PETER: “I denied Him.”
CHILD: “Then give, and weep.”
ROSE: A deep sea-pink rose, salted at the petals, scent like brine and forgiveness.

CHILD: “Doubter made sure—one rose?”
THOMAS: “My Lord and my God.”
ROSE: A white rose with a red-splashed tip, scent like clean linen and startled faith.

CHILD: “Woman of the garden—one rose?”
MARY MAGDALENE: “I have seen the Lord.”
ROSE: A bright dawn-rose—pink turning to gold—scent like morning air and astonished joy.

CHILD: “Rabbi…Adonai…if I may ask…” (Her throat floods; words drown.) “…one rose?”
CHRIST: (Soft as bread in His own hands.) “Little one.”
CHILD: “Only a rose.” (She cannot tell Him. She cannot.)
ROSE: A rose beyond naming—white and red together, as if snow and blood agreed; fragrance like myrrh, like honey, like home. It hurts to breathe it.


ACT VII — ACTS TO JUDE: FIRE ON TONGUES, CHAINS AS HYMNS, AND LETTERS LIKE LAMPS

At Pentecost she heard a rushing wind
Fill up the house; she saw the tongues of fire
Rest on the heads of ordinary men—
And common speech became a holy flood.
Three thousand hearts were pierced; baptism waters
Sparkled like joy in sun.

She walked with apostles through prisons’ iron breath:
An angel opened doors; chains fell like leaves.
She watched Stephen die with heaven in his eyes,
Praying for those who threw the stones.
She followed Saul—now Paul—struck blind by light,
Made new by grace, a former wolf turned shepherd.

She sailed with him through storms; she heard the hymns
Sung in the midnight cells; she saw shipwrecks,
Serpents, riots, councils, and bold defense—
And always Christ proclaimed.

Then letters—Romans’ depth of grace;
Corinthians’ love that bears and hopes;
Galatians’ freedom; Ephesians’ armor bright;
Philippians’ joy in chains; Colossians’ Christ supreme;
Thessalonians’ hope of His return;
Timothy, Titus—steadfast order in the flock;
Hebrews’ great High Priest; James’ living faith;
Peter’s suffering, John’s abiding love;
Jude’s warning to contend.

The child learned this: the Church is not a throne,
But pilgrim feet upon a bloody road;
And still the question—now refined to flame—
Became the cry of every watching heart:
“How shall we endure till Thou return, O Lord?”

Interlude of Roses — Acts and the Letters

Litany

CHILD: “Martyr bright—one rose?”
STEPHEN: “Lord, lay not this sin to their charge.”
ROSE: A luminous white rose, almost glowing, scent like clean air and heaven-near peace.

CHILD: “Apostle—one rose?”
PAUL: “Grace be with thee.”
ROSE: A thorny red rose with a strong straight stem, scent like ink and ship-salt—mission sharpened into mercy.

CHILD: “Son in the faith—one rose?”
TIMOTHY: “Pray for boldness.”
ROSE: A shy pale pink rosebud, barely opened, scent like spring—courage learning to bloom.

CHILD: “Builder of order—one rose?”
TITUS: “Let all things be done with soundness.”
ROSE: A firm coral rose, tidy petals, scent like citrus and clean linen.

CHILD: “Teacher—one rose?”
JAMES: “Be ye doers.”
ROSE: A practical wild rose, rose-red with strong hips, scent like earth and honest sweat.

CHILD: “O suffering counsel—one rose.”
LETTER: “Hope to the end.”
ROSE: A resilient rose, deep red with frost-white edges, scent like winter and endurance.

CHILD: “Beloved elder—one rose?”
JOHN: “Little children, love one another.”
ROSE: A soft white rose with a pink halo, fragrance gentle—like comfort after fear.

CHILD: “Contender—one rose?”
JUDE: “Keep yourselves in the love of God.”
ROSE: A sharp-scented red rose with pointed petals, smelling of spice and vigilance.


ACT VIII — REVELATION: THE VEIL LIFTS, THE LAMB REIGNS, THE WORLD MADE NEW

Patmos: salt wind; rock; the smell of seaweed;
An old man exiled with a burning pen.
The child stood near as visions broke like waves:
Lampstands; seals; horsemen; trumpets; bowls of wrath;
A dragon’s rage; a beast’s loud blasphemies;
A scarlet harlot; Babylon’s collapse;
The Rider True; the Word like sharpened sword;
The dead raised up; the books; the final court.

Then—like rain after a long drought—
A new heaven, and a new earth, and holy city,
New Jerusalem, descending bright as bride.
No more death; no mourning; no crying; no pain.
A river clear; the tree of life in fruit;
And God Himself with men.

And here the last great note: the Spirit and the Bride
Say, “Come.”
And Christ: “Surely I come quickly.”
The Church replies in Aramaic prayer: מָרַנָא תָּא (Maranatha)—“Our Lord, come.”

Interlude of Roses — Revelation

Litany

CHILD: “Seer of the end—one rose?”
JOHN: “Write what thou hast seen.”
ROSE: A stark white rose with icy blue undertone, scent like sea-salt and lightning.


EPILOGUE — “UP UNTIL THIS TIME”: THE CHILD TURNS TO US

Now stands the Missionary Child from Zion
At the edge of our own loud, electric days—
Where screens glow blue like restless, sleepless seas,
Where many know of Christ yet do not know Him,
Where hearts are hungry though the tables groan.

She does not add to Scripture; she does not gild it—
She simply tells it, with all senses awake:
The hay of Bethlehem, the salt of Galilee,
The cedar smell of Solomon’s proud halls,
The ash of exile, the blood of covenant,
The thunder of Sinai, the hush of empty tomb.

And if you ask: what one and only thing
This time-traveling witness most would ask—
It is this, distilled from every age and ache:

The Child’s One Burning Question

“How shall a human heart be made clean and whole—
and how shall we live, faithful and unafraid,
until the King returns?”

The Child’s Mission

To testify—book by book—that God’s works are true,
that His promises are not tales but covenants,
and that all roads of Scripture converge in Christ:
Creator, Redeemer, Lamb, King, and Coming Lord.

When She Realizes

She senses it from the first promise in Eden—
yet she knows it fully at the Cross and the Empty Tomb:
that her wandering was always a guided path,
and her purpose was always witness, not wandering.


CODA — The Foot of the Cross, and the Roses He Never Had

And now—O hush.
She comes again to Golgotha, not in thunder,
But on small feet that tremble with devotion.
Her arms are full—so full—of gathered beauty:
Roses of desert sand and river mist,
Roses of exile and of homecoming,
Roses of kings and widows, prophets, martyrs,
Roses of sinners’ night and saints’ hard dawn—
Each one a different tongue of color speaking,
Each one a different wound made into perfume.

She has not told a soul.
Not Adam, bowed beneath the first “alas,”
Not Abraham, who measured stars like promises,
Not Moses, whose hands held law and longing,
Not David, wet with psalms,
Nor Esther, brave in silence—
Not even Peter, broken open into love—
Not even Mary, mother of the Lamb—
Not even Him.

Yet all the while she saw it—she saw it true:
The Christ, who gives Himself for every nation—
For every color under heaven’s lamp,
For every language ever breathed as prayer—
He stood with blood for garment, thorns for crown,
And no rose in His hand.
No soft thing. No sweet thing. No beauty offered—
Save what His own torn love had made of shame.

And she—oh child—she cannot bear it.
Her hunger is not for bread, but to give beauty
To One who fed the world with His own heart.

So she kneels down. The ground is hard.
The air is iron. Her throat is salt.
Her tears fall fast—like that first rain on Eden’s exile.
She lays the roses down, not in a heap,
But one by one, as if each were a name
That God remembers.

She places first the Eden-blush rose—
Then Noah’s rainwashed lavender—
Then Abraham’s sand-warm flame-edged bloom—
Then Moses’ fire-and-cloud rose—
Then Ruth’s hearth-coral kindness—
Then Isaiah’s white-with-crimson prophecy—
Then Mary’s lullaby-white rose—
Then Stephen’s luminous peace—
Then Paul’s thorny mission-red—
Then the nameless rose Christ gave her—
White and red together, like mercy married to pain.

She does not speak her secret still—
Only whispers, scarcely sound at all:

“הִנֵּנִי… Hineni.”
‏Here am I.
‏Small.
‏Nothing.
‏Glad.

‏And if the world could hear her heart, it would hear this:
‏Not pride, not show, not poetry for applause—
‏But a child, deliberate in mission, sweet as dawn,
‏Trying to give a suffering Savior
‏One small garden’s worth of tenderness.

‏Then, in the hush where sorrow turns to gold,
‏It seems the wind grows softer round the cross—
‏As if the universe inhales the rose-scented offering
‏And lets it out as peace.

‏And she, her cheeks all wet, her hands all empty,
‏Looks up into the face she sought through time—
‏And though she never tells what the roses were for,
‏Her eyes do.

‏For in her gaze is every era’s ache made gentle,
‏And every color’s beauty laid in love,
‏And every language gathered without fear—
‏And one unspoken truth, more lovely than a crown:

‏That the Lamb who wore thorns for all the earth
‏Shall yet be honored—
‏Even by a child—
‏With roses.


Written by Marguerite Grace 
Copyright Protected 

עֵץ הַזַּיִת

Written by Marguerite Grace

Written by Marguerite Grace

Copyright Protected

FRICTION BARRIER

A stern word for those who bruise peace and call it faith.

Truth doesn’t shout—it stands. Judgment isn’t ours, but the record is kept.

There is a payday, and grace is still open… for now.

🎧 Friction Barrier

✍️ Lyrics by Marguerite Grace

🌐 write-with-grace

🔥📖⚖️🕊️

#FrictionBarrier #SpokenWord #PropheticPoetry #TruthTold #NoMoreMasks #FaithAndFire #WriteWithGrace

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