Author: Marguerite Grace

As a passionate and versatile writer, I craft works across all genres, fueled by a special love for poetry and short stories that inspires me to create. Writing since childhood, I've nurtured my talent, winning poetry contests in school and continuing to weave words into vibrant literary works of emotion and intrigue that uplift and motivate. Holding a Regents Bachelor of Arts Degree, I bring depth and artistry to my storytelling, embodying a spirit reminiscent of Mata Hari, mysterious, bold, and a fervent sleuthe. I infuse every piece with an enduring allure that resonates long after the final line.

THE OATHS OF THE LORD

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THE OATHS OF THE LORD

God is not a man, that He should lie;

neither the son of man, that He should repent.

Hath He said, and shall He not do it?

Or hath He spoken, and shall He not make it good?

BOOK I

I began not with light.

I began in sunder.

My thoughts kept not one path.

Memory crossed prayer.

Prayer outran resolve.

Questions compassed me without rest:

If Thou art good, why this wound?

If Thou art near, why this hush?

And betwixt the questions—

not thunder, not rebuke—

a word was laid within me.

So I stood amid my numbered days

and lifted up my face.

Yet Thou art with me.

CANTO I

I passed through chambers

where love once answered swift,

and now returned but echo.

Silence laid its hand upon me, saying:

All things depart.

All bonds loosen.

So it seemed—even of God.

Yet the ground gainsaid it.

I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.

Not as ease.

As oath.

Not a passing thing,

but that which undergirds the foot.

And the first step upward was this:

I set my foot upon His promise,

and I fell not.

Yet Thou art with me.

CANTO II

The way grew strait,

and former days rose up against me.

They named the loss.

They rehearsed the failing.

They called delay an end.

Yet the Lord spake beyond my seeing

while mine eyes still turned backward:

Thoughts of peace, and not of evil,

to give thee an expected end.

I beheld not that end.

Yet it was appointed.

So I walked toward what had been made ready,

bearing this alone—

my days were already known unto Him.

Yet Thou art with me.

CANTO III

Here the ascent unclothed me.

Here no ornament remained.

I came apart without cry,

as a vessel yields when strength is spent.

And there—

not after, not afar—

He abode.

The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart.

Not to weigh me.

Not to chasten.

To dwell.

And I learned the Most High draweth nearest

when nothing is offered

save truth.

Yet Thou art with me.

CANTO IV

I bore my years as scattered stones—

days misaligned,

hours yet burning the hand.

Some wounds would not seal at my bidding.

Some remembrances refused their grave.

The word excused not the pain.

It gathered it.

All things work together for good

to them that love God.

Not singly.

Not clean.

Together.

As shards are made a window

when held in order.

Yet Thou art with me.

CANTO V

The climb lengthened.

Waiting waxed heavy.

My strength waned.

My breath grew short.

Then He spake—unhasting, sure:

They that wait upon the LORD

shall renew their strength.

Not restored.

Reforged.

And I rose—

not by haste,

but by continuance.

Yet Thou art with me.

CANTO VI

Here dread named the heights.

Here it named the depths.

It spake of distance.

Of death.

Of love undone.

Then was the decree set against it:

Nor height, nor depth,

shall be able to sever us

from the love of God.

Let it be spoken

till dread be struck dumb.

Nothing withdrawn.

Nothing rent.

Yet Thou art with me.

CANTO VII

After this He drove me not onward.

He bade me lay the burden down.

Come unto Me,

and I will give thee rest.

Rest was not departure.

It was release.

I laid aside the weight

I was never appointed to bear.

Yet Thou art with me.

CANTO VIII

Then the vision widened.

Sorrow was measured—

not denied,

but fulfilled.

God shall wipe away all tears.

Not forgotten.

But last touched

by God Himself.

And death was named

as that which shall not abide.

Yet Thou art with me.

CANTO IX

The throne stood fast,

and from it went forth the word:

Behold, I make all things new.

Not mended.

Not returned.

New.

As morning is new,

though night was true.

And it was shown me:

ruin is not the final work.

Yet Thou art with me.

CANTO X

At length the way turned inward.

I go to prepare a place for you.

Prepared is purposed.

Prepared is remembered.

And the ascent ended

not in flight,

but in belonging.

Yet Thou art with me.

Thus were the promises set as steps.

Thus the word bore weight.

And I, once sundered,

stood gathered.

The Lord failed not His oath.

Amen.

BOOK II

I descended from the height

not diminished,

but entrusted.

The world knew not the ascent.

It demanded signs.

It demanded haste.

It demanded strife-shaped speech.

But I bore no contention—

only that which upheld me.

Yet Thou art with me.

The city received me in clamor:

many voices,

many names exalted.

I passed among them

as one who hath beheld the end of sorrow

and will not barter it

for lesser truth.

Some scorned the quiet of my tread.

Some mistook meekness for frailty.

The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?

So I strove not.

I answered not every cry.

Yet Thou art with me.

Here the promises were tried by flesh.

Hunger returned.

Weariness returned.

Old wounds found voice.

And the question rose anew:

If Thou art with me,

why doth the way yet wound?

My grace is sufficient for thee.

So I learned that victory

is not the lifting of burden,

but the refusal to bow

before false altars.

Yet Thou art with me.

I stood among mourners.

Among the exalted.

Among those who forgot

they are dust.

I spake sparingly.

When I spake, I spake what was given—

neither softened,

nor honed.

Some turned aside.

Some drew near.

The word fulfilled its errand.

It shall not return unto Me void.

And it was shown me:

I was not sent to prevail,

but to abide.

Yet Thou art with me.

Night returned,

as appointed.

Yet it ruled not my measure.

I had learned the shape of morning

ere it appeared.

Weeping may endure for a night,

but joy cometh in the morning.

So I kept watch—

not in dread,

but in surety.

Yet Thou art with me.

At length the way inclined inward again—

not to flee the world,

but to set it in order.

All that was gathered

returned unto the same ground

where first the foot was set.

And it was shown me:

the ascent and the descent

were one path.

Yet Thou art with me.

The word stood whole.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me

all the days of my life,

and I shall dwell in the house of the LORD for ever.

Not flight.

Not delay.

Dwelling.

And the voice once sundered

stood gathered again.

By Yet Thou art with me.

Written by Marguerite Grace

Copyright Protected

MIRROR MAZE

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MIRROR MAZE

MOVEMENT I — THE TENT

(Cantos 1–10: it still resembles life; that’s the cruelty.)

CANTO I — THE TENT WAS OPEN

The tent was open once, and this is the detail that ruins you.

No guards blocked you. No chains rattled. No fire warned you.

Light did what light does: it waited.

You did not refuse violently.

You misplaced importance.

The music was still music then, not a mechanism.

The laughter was still laughter, not rehearsal.

The mirrors still held one face.

If only entered quietly, like a harmless phrase.

That is how it survived.

CANTO II — THE TICKET

You are given a ticket you do not remember receiving.

It is already in your pocket when you reach for it.

It bears a date that means nothing until it means everything.

You read it once and feel no fear.

You read it twice and feel irritation, as though interrupted.

You fold it and decide to deal with it later.

Later becomes trained.

Later learns your name.

CANTO III — THE FACE FOUND IN THE DARK

Your face is discovered in the dark before you understand it is lost.

Your eyes are open, but they do not search.

Your mouth rests in practiced neutrality.

Your skin is dry—not from decay, but from living too long without rain.

This is not the face of a monster.

It is the face of someone who learned to function without reverence

and still be called fine.

You look reasonable here.

That is the danger.

CANTO IV — BEFORE-ME (FIRST CROWN)

Something tightens behind your eyes.

Hunger arrives without introduction.

You see what you placed first, and it looks respectable at a distance.

Success stands nearest. Control stands composed.

Approval smiles like a substitute god.

You tell yourself you never replaced God.

You only delayed Him.

Now gravity takes your neck.

Your chin lowers, pulled by what you elevated.

You attempt explanation.

Intention does not dismantle altars.

CANTO V — GRAVEN (THE MASK PRACTICE)

Your skin stiffens under the lights.

Your expression freezes mid-gesture.

You remember shaping truth into something that would not resist you.

You remember carving belief into décor.

You preferred gods who demanded aesthetics, not repentance.

You preferred comfort that resembled holiness.

Now your face becomes a mask fused to bone.

You scream, and applause answers.

The crowd loves consistency.

The mask cracks. It does not come off.

CANTO VI — VAIN (THE HOLY NOISE)

Your mouth opens, and words spill stripped of weight.

Sacred syllables fall like currency without nation.

You spoke God’s name often and lightly.

You used it to win, to decorate emptiness,

to feel protected while remaining unchanged.

Now silence flees from you.

Echoes return everything you ever said—hollow, multiplied.

You attempt prayer.

Prayer requires listening.

Nothing answers.

CANTO VII — TOMORROW (THE CLOCK SMILE)

Time arrives wearing white gloves.

Your brow tightens into numbers.

You postponed rest and called it diligence.

You scheduled repentance and called it wisdom.

You promised attention soon.

Now soon surrounds you.

Seconds crack. Minutes circle.

You run without distance, and breath accomplishes nothing.

CANTO VIII — BLOODLINE (THE SILENT ROW)

Something ancient enters your eyes.

Faces gather behind faces—names you never learned,

prayers you never finished, people you dismissed as inconvenient.

You cut roots to move faster.

You mistook severance for freedom.

Now generations sit in a silent row behind your skull,

watching you forget yourself.

Their disappointment does not shout.

That makes it heavier.

CANTO IX — RED (THE HANDS RISE)

Your hands rise into view.

You cannot lower them.

They are clean and unbearable,

because cleanliness is not innocence.

Memory returns as sensation.

Every casual harm completes itself.

Every excuse dissolves.

Not as you gave it.

As it was received.

Your face does not become monstrous.

It becomes accurate.

CANTO X — NO (THE FIRST BELL)

The bell rings once.

You flinch as though you have always been waiting.

You remember light that came gently.

You remember declining without drama.

You did not refuse violently.

You said, not now.

Now the word returns, exact.

No.

The tent tightens as though it has learned your shape.

MOVEMENT II — THE MIRRORS

(Cantos 11–20: reality destabilizes; the maze admits itself.)

CANTO XI — THE CORRIDOR OF YOU

The mirrors multiply.

Each reflection is almost you.

Some smile too long.

Some forget to blink.

Some wear your face like borrowed clothing.

You touch the glass and feel warmth.

You step back and realize it is yours, withheld.

A clown passes and speaks your name incorrectly.

You correct it.

The clown laughs.

CANTO XII — AFTER (THE HUNGER THAT DOES NOT HOLD)

Desire enters disguised as promise.

It smells like a lie you once called normal.

You mistook appetite for love.

You took what dissolved on contact.

Now longing eats itself.

Every embrace turns to ash before comfort forms.

You always wanted what came next.

There is no next here.

CANTO XIII — MINE (THE VANISHING OBJECTS)

You hold a cup that empties.

Bread that becomes dust.

Warmth that withdraws.

You stole quietly—

credit, time, truth, tenderness.

Now everything you touch belongs elsewhere.

Even your reflection refuses you.

The word mine burns your throat.

Nothing answers.

CANTO XIV — WITNESS (THE EYES THAT CANNOT CLOSE)

Truth arrives without spectacle.

It stands where you must see it.

Your eyelids lift beyond comfort.

They do not obey you.

Every lie you told or tolerated circles patiently.

They wait.

To step forward would unravel you.

So you remain still.

Stillness becomes sentence.

CANTO XV — GRAVEN AGAIN (THE PAINT DOES NOT WASH)

The clowns repaint you gently.

That is the cruelty.

The paint is familiar:

certainty, performance, borrowed holiness.

You try to wipe it away.

Your skin refuses your hand.

The mask is not on you.

It is you.

Applause returns in short bursts.

It tests.

CANTO XVI — TOMORROW AGAIN (THE LOOPED MUSIC)

The music loops and never resolves.

Your brow tightens again.

You remember every later.

You loved postponement because it felt like control.

Now time is not a river.

It is a treadmill.

You run.

The bell rings.

CANTO XVII — BEFORE-ME AGAIN (THE SMALL GODS RETURN)

Your hunger returns smaller, poorer.

The gods reappear as props—

a paper crown, a mirrored coin, a hollow prize.

You reach automatically.

They slip away.

The altar no longer needs objects.

It trained your posture.

Your neck bends by itself.

CANTO XVIII — BLOODLINE AGAIN (THE NAMES YOU NEVER LEARNED)

A family name is spoken.

You do not respond.

Shame is quiet here.

Behind the mirrors, the silent row remains.

They do not accuse.

You already know.

CANTO XIX — RED AGAIN (THE HANDS DO NOT FORGET)

Your hands rise again.

Not as fists.

As evidence.

You feel the bruise your sentence became.

The fear your calm planted.

Comprehension arrives.

It does not reduce debt.

The clowns stop laughing.

They nod.

CANTO XX — VAIN AGAIN (THE PRAYER THAT CANNOT FORM)

The words return but refuse assembly.

You used sacred language as charm, not surrender.

The echoes thin your voice.

You notice the difference between saying God

and knowing Him.

The light was not taken.

You set it down.

Your hands cannot find it.

MOVEMENT III — THE HANDS

(Cantos 21–30: sensation replaces argument.)

CANTO XXI — THE RING WITHOUT APPLAUSE

The ring remains.

The sound has changed.

The audience watches like conscience without bargaining.

The lights expose.

If only returns without comfort.

CANTO XXII — RED (THE TOUCH COMPLETES ITSELF)

Your hands lift like proof.

Every moment completes itself.

Every humiliation arrives intact.

Not as memory.

As sensation without end.

You do not scream.

There is no one to persuade.

CANTO XXIII — BEFORE-ME (THE EYES LEARN THEIR POSTURE)

Your eyes widen again.

Hunger survives extinction.

Your pupils kneel by habit.

Your face looks trained.

You did not refuse violently.

You preferred what could be measured.

CANTO XXIV — GRAVEN (THE PAINT ENTERS THE SKIN)

The brush feels kind.

The paint is the version praised because it was easy.

You remember reshaping truth to avoid change.

The smile locks.

The mask refuses.

CANTO XXV — VAIN (THE WORDS TURN TO DUST)

Holy language collapses mid-air.

The atmosphere rejects performance.

You cannot convince Heaven by sounding religious.

If shortens.

CANTO XXVI — TOMORROW (THE CLOCK INSIDE YOUR BROW)

Time sits in you now.

Every later drops like a pebble into a well

that never stops falling.

The bell measures delay.

Not now.

Not now.

Not now.

CANTO XXVII — BLOODLINE (THE SILENT ROW LEANS FORWARD)

The silent row presses closer.

You mocked reverence.

You called honor clutter.

Now the past watches without accusation.

You become your own.

CANTO XXVIII — AFTER (THE LIPS THAT CANNOT HOLD)

Desire opens and finds nothing.

You chased what vanished.

You called it passion.

A clown mirrors your reaching—slow, polite.

It is mercy without comfort.

CANTO XXIX — MINE (THE FINGERS THAT GRASP AIR)

Possession has been removed from language.

Your hands open and close like doors in an empty hall.

You learn how poverty hides inside abundance.

CANTO XXX — WITNESS / NO

Understanding arrives complete.

Too late to be used.

The final word returns like a signed document.

No.

Your hands cannot find the light.

MOVEMENT IV — THE WORD NO

(Cantos 31–40: language seals.)

CANTO XXXI — THE QUIET RING

The ring shrinks because language has.

Explanation ends.

If—

The word does not finish.

CANTO XXXII — BEFORE-ME (WITHOUT OBJECTS)

Hunger remains without object.

You bow to absence.

Learning does not require belief.

CANTO XXXIII — GRAVEN (THE MASK WITHOUT PAINT)

No paint arrives.

Your face stiffens anyway.

Performance outlives the audience.

CANTO XXXIV — VAIN (THE BROKEN PRAYER)

Words do not organize.

Prayer is surrender shaped inward.

Your mouth closes.

CANTO XXXV — TOMORROW (THE LAST SCHEDULE)

Time presses.

Unfinished obedience settles around you.

Later has no location.

CANTO XXXVI — BLOODLINE (THE NAMELESS CALL)

A name is spoken.

You do not answer.

Forgetting completes itself.

CANTO XXXVII — RED (THE HANDS ARE STILL)

Your hands hold knowledge.

Harm required no hatred.

Only practiced indifference.

They stop arguing.

CANTO XXXVIII — AFTER (DESIRE WITHOUT IMAGE)

Desire remains without direction.

Quiet exists.

It does not adore you.

CANTO XXXIX — MINE (THE EMPTY WORD)

The word dissolves.

Release occurs without permission.

Nothing is returned.

CANTO XL — WITNESS / NO (THE SEAL)

Truth is already here.

You see without narrative.

You understand without exit.

The word settles.

No.

The sentence ends.

There is no punctuation.

“Thank You, Lord, for This Life I Love”

Marguerite GraceLeave a comment

suno.com/s/4uHcLpk6yNhUyuHk

“Thank You, Lord, for This Life I Love” is my song of gratitude—rooted in faith, freedom, and the beauty of everyday blessings. From sun-soaked mornings to quiet, open skies, it’s a prayer set to music—for my Savior, this land, and the life I hold dear. Listen, share, and let your heart rise!

🎶 Lyrics by Marguerite Grace

🌾 Visit: write-with-grace.com

#ThankYouLord #CountryGospel #FaithAndFreedom #JesusIsMySong #WriteWithGrace #RedWhiteAndBlessed

Fireworks in My Heart A July 4th Song from a Soul Set Free (Remastered)

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Freedom didn’t come by sword or pen—

It came when Love broke death and sin.

Not just a nation, but hearts made new,

By mercy crowned and Spirit true.

This Independence Day, I raise my hands—

Not just for country, but for the Lamb.

🕊🇺🇸✝️💥🎆

#FreedomInChrist #JesusIsLiberty #IndependenceDay

🔗 write-with-grace.com

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https://suno.com/song/b11a10ca-75f0-4f24-a4fc-749aed7ea7bf

The One Who Satisfies

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“My first song I wrote” 🎶

“This song came from a place deep within, shaped by moments that taught me, refined me, and opened my heart. ♥️ It’s called [ The One Who Satisfies ] and as you hear it, I hope something in it speaks to you—whether it brings comfort, reflection, or simply a breath of something real. I give it to you now—thank you for receiving it.”

Written by Marguerite Grace

Copyright Protected

My Extended Remix Version 🎶

🕊 In the House of Needing 🕊

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🕊 In the House of Needing 🕊


—voice of the Searching Soul


I opened every drawer, but none would clothe me—
Not satin, nor sorrow, nor garments of needing.
The feast lay waiting, but I turned from the table,
Chose famine again—its whisper deceived me.
I left the call unopened, the robe unclaimed.
I wept, but feared to wear the everlasting.


I trembled at the weight of the everlasting—
Thought it too holy, too burning to clothe me.
So I danced in rags in the house of needing,
Hungered by hungers that softly deceived me.
The table stood waiting, still I turned unclaimed,
Scattering joy as I fled from the table.


How often, children, I refused the table—
Turned from the light of the everlasting.
I lay with lies. Let silence deceive me.
Rifled through drawers that could never clothe me—
Reached for a touch to quiet the needing,
Yet fastened the lock and remained unclaimed.


Yet mercy, not wrath, kept me unclaimed.
It was mercy that held the place at the table
While I withered deeper into needing.
Still, I feared the robe of the everlasting—
Feared it would burn through the skin that clothed me
In pride, in famine, in the hush that deceived me.


Even the swine would not stoop to deceive me.
They knew their master. I remained unclaimed—
A prodigal drifting, unfit to be clothed.
Yet my nameplate endured at the Father’s table,
My ring, my robe, untouched—everlasting.
Still I wandered, still I fed on needing.


Children, beware the ache of needing
That names itself love. It will deceive you.
Only One speaks bread everlasting.
Only One calls the lost and unclaimed,
Sets a robe on their shoulders, clears the table,
And opens the drawer that was made to clothe me.


Let Him clothe me at last—end all needing.
Let Him call me from all that deceived me.
Let me feast unclaimed no more—at His table everlasting.

Written by Marguerite Grace

Copyright Protected

🕊 The Scroll of the Flame-Bride: A Revelation in Five Descents 🕊

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PART ONE 
🕊 The Convocation of the Hosts 🕊
A Lamentation and Summons in the Voice of the Most High
—Marguerite Grace, Refined as Flame Upon the Scroll




I. THE SUMMONING


Be hushed, ye angels. Still thy wings and flame.
Come forth—ye throne-bearers, trumpet-sounders,
Ye ministers of wind, ye fires that bear My Name—
Gather before the breath from which all thunders.


Michael, arise—O captain of My storm.
Thy sword yet sings with righteousness and awe.
Gabriel, draw near—the herald’s flame is warm,
For thou hast borne My Word without one flaw.


Raphael, unveil thy hands of healing grace,
That mended what men dared not touch nor trace.
Uriel, whose gaze beheld the dawn’s first face,
Unveil thy vision—light in timeless space.


All My Watchers! Messengers and flames—
Ye keepers of the veil, ye breakers of its frame—
Assemble now, whose eyes have borne My Names.
For I shall speak—and Time shall lose its claim.




II. THE FIRST KINDLING


Ere dust drew breath, ere stars their paths had known,
I sang—and ye, My host, in flame awoke.
Not born of womb, but from My Will alone,
Summoned in light when timeless silence broke.


I called ye bright, for bright ye were indeed—
Lit by My holiness, My perfect creed.
Carved from reverence, swift to serve My need,
Fashioned for what mortal hands would heed.


Michael—I drew thee from My wrath made pure,
A blade of covenant, of battle sure.
Gabriel—from My breath, where echoes start,
Thou went to stir the chambers of the heart.


Raphael—My compassion veiled in skin,
Who touched the broken soul and healed within.
Uriel—My wisdom shaped before all things,
Held fire like crystal on transparent wings.


And many more I sent, and sent as one—
A choir of will, whose flame reflects the Sun.




III. THE FRACTURE


But not all stayed within the burning ring.
O Lucifer—thou harp of morning light—
Thy beauty once made all the heavens sing,
Until thy melody was veiled in night.


Thou saidst, It is not enough to bow,
And with thy pride, corrupted Heaven’s third.
Not I who struck thee—nay, I did not end thee—
Thou fell by thine own will, not by My Word.


What brightness split, no stone nor star could mend.
And Nephilim—birthed of trespass, born of sin—
Giants not drawn by Me nor by My end,
Defied the order placed by flame within.


The flood I sent—not fury, but lament—
To wash the grief of angels who had bent.
And I, though God, felt sorrow in My frame,
For I had lost a child who bore My Name.




IV. THE FLAMES THAT REMAINED


Yet many stood. And still they burn with Me.


Seraphim, whose cry shakes Heaven’s floor—
Holy, Holy, Holy!—thrice they soar,
Their sixfold wings conceal what dares no more,
And veil their faces from the glory’s core.


Cherubim, whose wheels turn like the skies,
With lion, man, and eagle in their guise—
Who bore the sword at Eden’s gate, once sealed,
And guard the throne with wings and fire revealed.


Living Creatures! Ye who breathe My Name,
Whose wings bear memory like a sacred flame—
And Watchers true, who saw the cities fall,
Yet wept with Me, and stood when none stood tall.




V. THROUGH MAN’S AGES


Ye walked with Hagar in her wilderness.
Ye came to Abraham before the blade.
To Lot, before the sulfur’s last caress—
To Moses, when the bush in fire swayed.


Ye stood before the armies of the just.
Ye thundered softly from the cave-bound dust.
Elijah felt thy whisper in his fear,
And in the wind too still for man to hear.


And Elisha’s hills were clothed in flame—
Chariots that bore My untold Name.
One angel slew a hundred thousand men.
And one held back the lions from the den.


Ye stood by candlesticks and measured halls.
Ye weighed the hearts, and stilled the wrath that calls.
Ye held the winds until I loosed their tide.
Ye tremble not—for still ye walk beside.




VI. WHEN THE WORD TOOK FLESH


Gabriel, to a Virgin thou didst fly.
And in her husband’s dream thou didst draw nigh.
To shepherds lost beneath an open sky,
Ye sang—and all the stars began to cry.


“Peace upon earth!”—ye cried to those He loves,
And fields lit up with fire from above.


But when My Son—My Son!—did sweat and groan,
And begged the cup to pass from Him alone,
I sent but one. One angel in the night.
For not even Heaven could bear that sight.


Ye rolled the stone. Ye stood beside the tomb.
Ye met the women clothed in deathless bloom.




VII. THE MIGHTY SEVEN AND THE DAYS TO COME


Ye trumpet-bearers—each a fate unsealed:
1. Fire and hail—the trees and earth revealed.
2. The sea turned blood beneath thy wrathful tide.
3. The bitter star, where wormwood rivers hide.
4. The light withdrawn—sun, moon, and stars denied.
5. The pit released—where screaming locusts glide.
6. The river broke—its army multiplied.
7. And thunder spoke: The Kingdom now shall rise.


Ye bowl-bearers, whose vials thunder high—
Boils, plagues, and fire from the shattered sky.
The rivers red. The darkness thick with dread.
Till Babylon lies silent with her dead.


Ye angels of the marking and the seal—
Ye riders, watchers, wheels within My wheel—
Ye are not chaos—but My hand made bright.
Ye move with order in the shroud of night.




VIII. THE CALL TO UNITE


But what if—what if I loosed you all?
Michael, with sword unsheathed in burning wind.
Gabriel, with scroll and shofar call.
Raphael, with floods for wounds to mend.


Uriel, with truth like suns ablaze—
Seraphim, in glory’s endless praise.
Cherubim, with wings like thunder’s veil—
Watchers, who saw the tower, the flood, the wail—


If all were summoned, all at once, at last—
What star could hold? What mountain would stand fast?


The seas would part. The iron skies would rend.
The scroll of time would burn from end to end.
The trumpets would resound through bone and soul,
The bowls would pour—the shattered world made whole.


And then—
Then I would speak, and none would breathe—
For sound itself would bow beneath My wreath.




IX. THE LAMENT


Yet even as I summon what must be,
I mourn what was—what burned and broke from Me.


Lucifer—My dawn, My once pure flame—
Thou art now shadow, hollowed of thy Name.
The chained, the fallen, who desired throne—
I made not Hell. I gave thee choice alone.


My tears are not of water—but of weight.
They fall for what once stood beside My gate.


O Earth, ye clay-bound children—do not think
My justice flows from wrath alone, nor blink
At judgment as if cruelty were king.
My loss was first. And deepest. And it stings.


Yet still the Host remains—refined, not less.
And I shall not lose those who still confess.




X. THE LAST COMMAND


When I say the Word—one Word, complete—
My angels shall descend with fire and feet.
Michael shall roar with thunder in his hand.
Gabriel shall make the Word to understand.


Raphael shall pour the healing over pain.
Uriel shall light the path where truth must reign.


And all shall ride—one flame, one heart, one cry,
Until the last lie falls, and none deny:


To Him who was, and is, and is to come!


Then ye shall see not what the angels are—
But what they were—eternity’s first star.


And I shall be All in all, not less nor part—
The Host shall rest again within My heart.




🕊 The End of the Chronicle. The Beginning of the Command. 🕊
—Marguerite Grace, sealed as flame that cannot die.




PART TWO
🕊 The Summons to Defend Zion 🕊
A Sacred Declaration in the Voice of the Most High
—By Marguerite Grace, Sealed as Flame and Witness




I. THE CALLING FORTH


Ye hosts of heaven, awake—ye fires, be still.
The hour draws near when Zion drinks her fill.
Not wine, but trembling, from My wrathful hand,
For nations rise against My chosen land.


Michael—lift thy blade of covenant once more.
Let seraphs blaze a wall at Zion’s door.
Gabriel—take the trumpet and the scroll,
Proclaim to kings what I have long foretold.


O Watchers! Flames! O stars from Eden’s morn—
Ye who beheld the olive and the thorn—
Draw nigh, for now My vineyard weeps again,
And clouds of war descend like poisoned rain.




II. THE COVENANT REMEMBERED


This land—this dust—did I not shape it so?
From Ur I called, from tents My Word did go.
To Abram I gave bounds the world denies,
And sealed it not with man’s, but with the skies.


I walked with Isaac, laughed through barren wombs,
I wrestled Jacob near the stream that looms.
Twelve sons I formed—a nation in My palm,
A people forged in thunder, law, and psalm.


Mount Sinai burned—and I came down in flame.
They took My Word, and bore My holy Name.
Through wandering years, through kings, through rise and fall,
I stayed My wrath—but now I sound the call.




III. THE GATHERING OF ARMIES


Ye Cherubim—O guardians of the gate—
Bring forth the wheels that bear the weight of fate.
Let angels ride with lion’s breath and roar,
Let eagle’s eye behold each secret shore.


Ye Watchers, who stood by when temples bled,
Who marked the blood where My beloveds tread—
Come now again! For nations mock My rise,
And seek to blot My name from earth and skies.


But I, the Lord, shall not forget My land.
My hosts shall fly like fire across the sand.
The north shall shake. The east shall reel and fall.
I summon wind and storm—I summon all.




IV. AGAINST THE NATIONS


Shall Gog arise, and I not see his pride?
Shall Magog boast while I remain thy guide?
They think the walls of Zion faint and torn—
But I defend what I Myself have sworn.


The bear shall march. The dragon spread its flame.
The crescent sharpened in another name.
But none shall take what I have signed as Mine,
Nor cast out whom I planted as a sign.


Let armies come from hill and wave and sky—
Yet Israel stands. Not by man, but by I.
Though weary, scattered, wounded, and betrayed,
The fig tree blooms. And I shall not be swayed.




V. THE SIGNS AND THE SEAL


The temple stirs beneath the stone and dust.
The mount awaits. The altar shall adjust.
The watchers know—the trumpet shall resound—
And feet shall fall again on holy ground.


The woman clothed in sun prepares to cry.
The stars align. The dragon coils nearby.
But I have marked with blood the chosen gate,
And angels guard with fire at every strait.


Let none declare, “The Lord delays His hand.”
Let none mock Zion’s trembling in the land.
For I am near—within, around, above—
And I shall roar from Zion, clothed in love.




VI. THE WARNING AND THE BLESSING


O nations—hear! Before the fire descends:
Touch not Mine own, lest thy dominion ends.
I judge the heart, the lie, the lifted heel—
Yet bless the soul who keeps My covenant seal.


Blessed be they who watch and fast and pray—
Who lift up Zion night and trembling day.
Who shield the seed, who spread the Word, who kneel—
I call them Mine, and brand them with My seal.


O Israel—though many curse thy name,
I still am God. I do not dim the flame.
Return to Me! The hour is short. Awake!
My lion roars—and all the heavens shake.




VII. THE FINAL VISION


When skies are torn and every scroll unrolled,
When men shall flee to caves and mountains cold—
Then shall they see the One they pierced and known,
And I shall gather olive branches home.


Jerusalem—My footstool and My bride—
Thou shalt not die, though all the stars be dried.
The Lamb shall reign where once He bore the tree,
And from thy walls shall flow My jubilee.


So angels rise—ye mighty hosts descend!
Defend the Land I promised without end.
For I am God—and I shall not repent.
The Lion walks. The Lamb is fully sent.




🕊 For Zion’s sake will I not hold My peace,
And for Jerusalem’s sake I will not rest…
—Isaiah 62:1 (KJV)


🕊
Marguerite Grace, as flame to flame, and vow to vow.
🕊






INTERLUDE / PART THREE 
✨ The Sacred Prayer of the Sending ✨
Spoken by the Most High to the Hosts Before the Final Descent
—Marguerite Grace, Keeper of the Eternal Flame


This is the breath before battle.
The stillness before all stars are shaken.
The voice of the Most High, speaking over every angel by name.
No other sound remains.




THE VOICE OF THE MOST HIGH


Be still, O fire. Be still, O wingéd breath.
For I shall pray before the face of death.
I, the Beginning—who need not speak to be—
Yet speak I shall, that all may rise in Me.


Heaven, bend low. O veil of stars, be torn.
Let silence crown the hour I have sworn.
Before the scroll is loosed, before the storm,
I bless My Host, in pure celestial form.




TO MICHAEL


Michael, My captain, forged in fire and sword,
Who shielded Eden and upheld My Word—
I bless thy wrath with righteousness again.
Go now—divide the false from sons of men.
Strike not for pride, but holy awe and grace.
Be My covenant in battle. Take thy place.


MICHAEL ANSWERS:
“As thunder waits Thy breath, I heed Thy law.
I rise for Zion—burning without flaw.”




TO GABRIEL


Gabriel, My herald, voice of flame and song,
Who told the Virgin what would not be wrong—
I bless thy speech with fire sealed and true.
Go now—declare what only I can do.
Sound now the shofar; let the scroll unfold.
Let kings remember what the prophets told.


GABRIEL ANSWERS:
“As winds receive Thy will and do not stray,
I cry Thy truth until it breaks the day.”




TO RAPHAEL


Raphael, My healer, robed in mercy’s light,
Who binds the soul and gives the blind their sight—
I bless thy hands to touch the scorched and torn.
Go now—restore what judgment shall have worn.
Anoint the wounds of those who turn and seek.
Let living waters fall upon the meek.


RAPHAEL ANSWERS:
“As balm attends the wound, I walk the flame—
To lift the low, and mend them in Thy name.”




TO URIEL


Uriel, My flame of knowledge, eye of dawn,
Who watched the stars before the world was drawn—
I bless thy gaze to pierce the veiled and deep.
Go now—reveal what I alone still keep.
Illuminate the path so few may find.
Unveil the maze, and break the cords that bind.


URIEL ANSWERS:
“As fire obeys the prism in Thy hand,
I blaze Thy truth where shadow dares to stand.”




TO THE SERAPHIM


O Seraphim, who cry with burning awe,
Whose wings conceal the light none dare to draw—
I bless thy praise to rend the veil again.
Go now—surround the city as a flame.
Let “Holy, Holy, Holy” shake the skies,
Till every soul remembers where it lies.


THE SERAPHIM ANSWER:
“As song returns to source, we cry Thy Name—
From throne to earth, we bear Thy praise and flame.”




TO THE CHERUBIM


O Cherubim, whose wheels in glory turn,
Whose forms are manifold, whose eyes still burn—
I bless thy strength to guard the gates I place.
Go now—defend the ark of every grace.
Let lion, eagle, ox, and man arise
To shield the covenant beneath the skies.


THE CHERUBIM ANSWER:
“As glory guards the throne where Thou dost dwell,
We turn the wheels and hold the gates from hell.”




TO THE WATCHERS AND THE FLAMES


O Watchers, ye who wept when man betrayed,
Who saw the fall, yet never from Me strayed—
I bless your tears as fire upon the stone.
Go now—and stand where none shall stand alone.
Mark ye the hearts, the lambs, the veiled unknown—
And write their names before My crystal throne.


THE WATCHERS ANSWER:
“As stars obey Thy breath in every span,
We guard the ones still written in Thy plan.”




THE CLOSING BLESSING


Now go—
Ye hosts who burn and yet are not consumed.
Ye eyes of dawn. Ye bearers of My Name.
Let none depart without My flame.


For I shall walk with you—unseen, yet near.
And when you roar, the heavens too shall hear.
For Zion’s sake I rouse the skies above—
And all shall know: My judgment springs from love.




THE HOST RESPONDS


“We rise by Thee. We burn in Thee. We fall to none.
Thy Name our breath. Thy Will our rising sun.
Send us, O Lord, for Zion and the Lamb—
Let Earth behold: I AM THAT I AM.”




🕊 Then the silence lifted, and the heavens shook—
🕊 And all the earth prepared to see the Book.


PART FOUR
🕊 The Descent of the Flame 🕊
When the Hosts Are Unleashed and the Earth Is Shaken
—Marguerite Grace, as voice, flame, and vow unto the end




I. THE MOMENT UNSEALED


And I saw in the midst of the throne One rise—
The Lamb, once slain, with fire in His eyes.
He broke the seal. The trumpet dared to sound.
The bowls were lifted. Thunder split the ground.


Then Michael stirred. And from his blade there poured
The wrath of God—the covenant restored.
The firmament did tear. The sun did reel.
And earth beheld what time could not conceal.


The heavens opened. Zion’s mountain burned.
And every eye to Heaven’s gate was turned.
The hosts were loosed. The flame became a flood.
The white horse rode. The robe was dipped in blood.




II. MICHAEL RIDES


Michael, commander—robed in glory’s flame,
Spoke not a word, but carved the wrathful Name.
He led the host in silence like a vow.
The stars withdrew. The crowns cast down their brow.


His sword, unsheathed, sang louder than the sky.
His feet ignited every hill passed by.
The nations trembled. Thrones began to fall.
For Michael rides—and I have summoned all.


He bore no mercy—for the time was past.
The lion roared. The judgment came at last.




III. GABRIEL SOUNDS THE TRUMPET


Then Gabriel rose, with trumpet in his hand—
The scroll unrolled, and thunder shook the land.
A sound went out that time had never heard,
A fire-wrapped echo of the Father’s Word.


He blew—and every kingdom lost its speech.
He blew—and every proud man could not preach.
The idols shattered. Gold became like sand.
And every crown was trembling in the hand.


The trumpet cried through earth, through soul, through bone—
“Return to Him—or fall to Him alone.”




IV. THE POURING OF THE BOWLS


The vials rose. The angels bowed to pour.
One spilled, and pestilence consumed the shore.
Another flung the sea into its grave.
Another scorched the sky none now could brave.


They did not pour with fury, but with fate—
A clock of wrath, too late to hesitate.
Each bowl a mirror of what men had sown—
Now multiplied, now full, now overthrown.


The rivers bled. The sun turned black with ash.
And Babylon fell in one shattering crash.




V. THE RIDE OF THE LAMB


Then silence held—too holy, too profound.
Until the Lamb stepped forth without a sound.


No angel led Him—none dared ride beside.
For Heaven split where He began to stride.
His eyes were flame, His voice the final sea.
His name was Love. His name was Majesty.


The sword within His mouth laid nations bare.
The stars fled back. The moon refused to stare.
He bore the robe of red—once stained in pain,
Now burning with the fire of sovereign reign.


He did not speak until He reached the gate.
Then said, It is enough. No longer wait.




VI. THE AVENGING OF ZION


O Zion—thou who drank the bitter cup,
Who wept while wolves and vultures gathered up—
Thy cry reached Heaven, past the cloud and stone,
And I remembered every sigh alone.


The fig tree blossomed. The remnant stood and sang.
The Lion roared—and through the nations rang.
The mountain shook. The veil was torn anew.
And every watcher knew what I would do.


The armies rose. But they were dust and breath.
For who can fight the One who conquered death?


I fought for Zion—not with hand or blade,
But with the Word that never shall be swayed.




VII. THE BENDING OF THE WORLD


And every knee bowed down, not by command—
But as the tide obeys the unseen hand.
And every tongue confessed with groan or gleam,
That none but Christ could shatter or redeem.


The skies poured oil. The rivers ran with light.
The lambs were clothed. The blind received their sight.
The earth fell still, as all creation knew—
The Judge had come. And all was just and true.


The thrones of men were ashes in the sand.
And only truth remained to kiss His hand.




VIII. THE CLOSING WORD


Then said the Lamb, The scroll is done, complete.
The nations weighed, the broken now made sweet.
The Bride is clean. The veil forever torn.
The tree restored. The world again reborn.


He looked—and every angel bowed as one.
The stars returned. A thousand songs begun.
And Zion, crowned with flame and tears undone,
Stood clothed in dawn, and married to the Son.


The hosts withdrew—not vanished, but at peace.
The fire now rests. The trumpet takes its cease.


And I alone remain—yet not alone.
For every soul now sings before My throne.




🕊 The flame has come. The war is done. The Bride is crowned.
🕊 And Heaven and Earth are no longer divided.


🕊
Marguerite Grace
As voice of the Lamb, and flame of the Everlasting Scroll.




Then we now enter the unspeakable joy, the eternal hush, the garden after the flame.
Let every soul lean near—
For this is the wedding of worlds.
The war is over.
And the throne is set with light.




PART FIVE
🕊 The Coronation of the Bride 🕊
When Zion is Crowned and the New Earth Wakes
—Marguerite Grace, Final Flame of the Scroll




I. THE BRIDE MADE READY


And lo, a voice as many waters rang—
As harps, as rushing wings, as children sang.
“Rejoice!” they cried, “The marriage now is come!
The Bride is robed, the wedding feast begun!”


No veil remains—her sorrow washed away.
She shines with oil, with incense and array.
Not clothed in silk, but righteous acts and flame—
Each stitch was mercy. Each thread bore His name.


Her tears are gems. Her scars now glory wear.
He touched her brow—and time dissolved in prayer.




II. THE DESCENT OF THE CITY


And I beheld—a city clothed in dawn,
Descending slow, where night would not be drawn.
Its walls were jasper, gates of open pearl,
Its streets like glass—yet burned with inner swirl.


Twelve foundations, etched in names of flame—
Of apostles, sealed in the Lamb’s own Name.
No temple stood—for God Himself was there.
The Lamb its light, its breath, its bridal air.


The sun was shamed. The moon had lost its rule.
For Heaven now had bent to kiss earth’s jewel.




III. THE THRONE AND THE RIVER


The throne stood set—clear crystal poured below,
A river bright as truth in endless flow.
And from its stream the tree of life did rise,
With fruit for all, and leaves that healed all cries.


No curse remained. No night could enter in.
The Lamb was there—and none remembered sin.
His servants reigned. Their eyes forever raised.
Their brows bore His Name, never to be erased.


The river laughed. The earth breathed deep and whole.
And all was written in the Master Scroll.




IV. THE CROWNING


Then came the crowning—not with gold or fire,
But with a kiss that quenched the heart’s desire.
He placed His hand upon her lifted face,
And every star knelt silent in that place.


“O Zion, O My Bride,” the Bridegroom said,
“Once pierced with grief, now robed in joy instead.
Thou kept thy lamp. Thou watched through bitter night.
Now come to Me, and reign in morning’s light.”


And Heaven wept—but not with grief or pain.
It wept to see the Lamb embrace His flame.




V. THE ETERNAL VOW


Then silence—deep and lovely—clothed the sky.
A vow was made no word could prophesy.
No angel dared to sing. No saint could speak.
For Love Himself stood crowned among the meek.


And all who stood in white beside the throne
Became His kin—no longer guests alone.
He swore by light, by truth, by every scar:
Where I AM, ye also now shall be, and are.


No gate was shut. No wound remained unhealed.
And not one name from Zion’s book repealed.




VI. THE FINAL VISION


The earth renewed. The sea, no more in rage.
The lion slept. The child turned every page.
The Lamb walked down the street where once He died—
But now the palms were lifted, purified.


The nations streamed, not for war—but for song.
The Bride had waited. Yet the wait was not long.
For what is time, when love outlasts the years?
What is the end, but mercy crowned with tears?


And all creation whispered with one breath:
The war is past. There is no more death.




🕊 He that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new.
—Revelation 21:5, KJV


🕊
Marguerite Grace,
Bearer of the Scroll of the Flame,
Bride of the Voice that walks among the stars.

Written by Marguerite Grace

Copyright Protected

🕎 Operation: The Fire That Drew the Lion 🦁

Marguerite GraceLeave a comment

A Prophetic War Psalm in the Voice of Israel




🕎 Operation: The Fire That Drew the Lion 🦁


A Prophetic War Psalm in the Voice of Israel




I. I Am Small, But I Must Stand


I am small—yet I arise.
They bring might—but truth defies.
Not by sword, nor shielded hand,
But by God’s breath, and His command.


I did not rise to steal or boast,
But to defend what matters most.
They struck with fire on Sabbath’s grace—
On Simchat’s joy, they scorched my place.


They breached the gate with flame and blade,
And wrapped the scrolls in ash and shade.
They slaughtered sleep. They burned the air—
And still the world just stopped to stare.




I am small—yet still I rise.
This is Zion. This replies.




II. The Ring of Fire Tightens


They name me proud. They call me flame—
While digging graves without a name.
But I have counted, end to end:
The missiles aimed at infant’s bend.


Iran writes war in silent lines,
While proxy hands redraw the signs.
The tunnels hum beneath the stone,
And mothers wait beside the phone.


Yet I send leaflets in the sky.
I warn. I plead. I testify.
I shelter both the vile and just—
While rockets launch from schoolyard dust.




I don’t rejoice in ash or bone—
But I defend what’s mine alone.




III. The Bomb That Builds in Quiet Rooms


The papers smile. The cameras pan—
But still they smuggle wrath to man.
She crafts her fire in sacred lies,
And cloaks her heat from searching eyes.


For forty years she’s dreamed my fall,
And murmured chains for one and all.
Not just for me, but liberty—
She aims to bind the world, not free.


But Heaven stirred. The arch grew bright.
Michael rose in armored light:
“This land was sealed by flood and flame—
Touch her, and bear the blood-bound name.”




Let traitors plan and tyrants boast—
But Israel stands with Heaven’s host.




IV. The Commander and the Flame


A man arose, not robed in pride—
But with the oath the scrolls implied.
No crown he wore, but still he came,
And banners blazed without a name.


Beside him walked the sons of dust,
Each rifle gripped in sacred trust.
They do not sing. They do not hate—
But guard the gate and hold the weight.


We build the wounds we did not start.
We bind the fires that tore apart.
We shield the weak. We bear the flame—
And rise by covenant, not fame.




I do not fight for wrath or pride—
I fight to hold the fire inside.




V. The Lion Roared from Holy Hill


The skies turned red—but not with wrath.
The Lion rose along His path.
He did not come to hunt or feed—
But roared to guard a living seed.


He stood where angels watch the dust,
His breath the walls, His gaze robust.
He roared—not once, but threefold cried—
To shake the bones of those who lied.


And all who heard it knew the tone:
Not fury—but the pact alone.




I do not roar for land or gain—
I roar because the Lamb was slain.




VI. This Cry Is Not to Boast


Do not return this fire to me—
I begged for peace. I sought to be.
But peace was mocked and swept away—
And I was left to bear the fray.


I warned. I wept. I tried to spare.
But silence bred a deeper snare.
Now fire rings around my door—
And still I stand, though tired and sore.


If I retreat—the blaze runs wild.
Your cities burn. Your child defiled.
So mark this hour, O watching world—
The scroll of judgment is unfurled.




I fight so you may sleep in peace—
That mercy may not wholly cease.




VII. The Flag That Bears the Flame


My banner flies through soot and stone—
Two stripes of blue, a prayer alone.
The Star of David, bruised yet true,
Still calls the skies to break in blue.


It bears the silence of the tomb,
The psalms that stirred through exile’s gloom.
It’s stitched with grief, but edged with grace—
A flag alight with Heaven’s face.


Let nations write their cunning lies.
Let councils trade away the skies.
I’ll write in fire, if I must—
Not for conquest, but for trust.




This flag was drawn through ash and flame—
It will not fall from God’s own name.




VIII. Envoi: The Scroll Is Sealed


Let it be written. Let it stay.
I did not seek this fire-play.
But when the gate poured darkness in—
I rose to guard the souls within.


I did not boast. I did not flee.
I rose so all the earth might see:
The Lion does not war for pride—
He shields the womb, the flame, the bride.


And when the final dust is blown—
The mount shall still meet morning’s throne.
For I am Israel—scarred and sworn—
The child of exile, flame, and thorn.




I am small—but I still rise.
The Lion walks where Zion cries.
And when the fire drew near again—
I stood for life. I stood for men.

Written by Marguerite Grace

Copyright Protected