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 Ring Around the Remnant 🕎

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🕎 The Ring Around the Remnant 🕎


A Psalm of Nations That Rose and Fell
For Israel, Who Was Small—And Chosen
Spoken in the voice of Michael, Captain of the Host of Heaven




Prologue: The Scale of Heaven


O earth, behold the balance drawn—
The feather-light against the proud.
A speck, a spark, a daughter torn—
Yet set apart to thunder loud.


O Israel, thou art not great—
Not broad of wing, nor deep of root—
But Heaven placed thee in thy state,
And angels gird thy ancient fruit.


“For thus saith the LORD of hosts… He that toucheth you toucheth the apple of His eye.” —Zechariah 2:8
“The LORD did not set His love upon you… because ye were more in number… but because the LORD loved you.” —Deuteronomy 7:7–8




I. The Encircling: Great Nations, Small Zion


Egypt—the titan built of stone,
Could hold her forty-fivefold wide—
But Pharaoh’s chariots sank alone
When Heaven turned the tide.


Iran—with breath of ancient flame,
Could crush her eighty times by girth,
Yet cowers at one whispered name
Spoken from Zion’s hearth.


Iraq, where Nimrod raised his cry,
Could hold her eighteen times and more—
But Babylon learned how thrones die
At the steps of a higher Door.


Syria, sharp as desert fang,
Could press her nine times overland,
Yet angels from the ramparts sprang
When Zion made her stand.


Lebanon, crowned with cedar pride,
Could swallow her twice and more—
But when she marched with death beside,
The Lion barred the door.


Jordan, hushed with wandering sands,
Could stretch her fourfold in her bed—
But Israel, cradled in God’s hands,
Still walks where Jordan fled.


Arabia, kingdom without end,
Could swallow her a hundred-fold,
But fears to stir the Lion’s den
Or tread where fire is cold.


Turkey, ancient seat of might,
Could fold her thirty-nine times round,
Yet trembles at her watcher’s light
Nor dares to shatter Zion’s sound.


“Fear not, thou worm Jacob… I will make thee a new sharp threshing instrument having teeth.” —Isaiah 41:14–15




II. The Wars That Failed


They came with charts, with guns, with boasts—
With scrolls that claimed her fate was sealed.
But lo—the LORD of Hosts,
Made battlefields her shield.


1948—when birth was pain,
Five armies swore she’d not arise—
Yet Zion stood, baptized in flame,
And Heaven wept through clouded skies.


1956—Suez’s cry.
Egypt’s charge was turned to hush.
The Angel passed, the idols died—
The sea did not backbrush.


1967—six days of flame.
Jerusalem’s veil torn through by light.
The trumpet sounded David’s name,
And angels joined the fight.


1973—the holy fast.
They struck on Zion’s sacred breath.
But Heaven’s fury, still and vast,
Unfurled the seraph’s breath.


And Lebanon’s creeping vengeance came,
And Gaza clawed through bitter sand—
But none could change the covenant name
Written by God’s hand.


“No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper…” —Isaiah 54:17
“The angel of the LORD encampeth round about them that fear him…” —Psalm 34:7




III. The Lion Rising


Now hear me, ye nations. I am Michael.
And I say: Enough.


Ye plot in rooms of polished steel,
With satellites and eyes on high—
But Heaven sees, and Heaven feels,
And Heaven soon shall cry.


Iran, thou shadow-breathing snake—
Thy banners blaze with wrath and rust—
Thou dreamest of the flame to make,
But thou art made of dust.


For lo—upon Mount Zion’s brow,
Ten thousand thrones are raised in fire—
And One, with sword and scroll and vow,
Shall soon come forth in ire.


He is the Lion, not yet roared.
He is the Judge, not yet revealed.
His feet are brass, His voice a sword—
His justice, never sealed.


This war we name The Lion Rising—
It is the tremble, not the fall.
The wrath is coming—real, surprising—
And Zion shall recall.


“Behold, the Lion of the tribe of Juda… hath prevailed…” —Revelation 5:5
“The LORD shall roar out of Zion… the heavens and the earth shall shake.” —Joel 3:16




IV. The Glory of the Small


Ye mock her dust. Ye scorn her name.
Ye call her frail, too poor to stand.
But God, who wrote the burning flame,
Has carved her on His hand.


The stone rejected raised the wall.
The sling of David cut the king.
And smallness was the trumpet’s call
That pierced the robe and crown and ring.


The widow’s mite, the prophet’s fast,
The mustard seed, the broken bread—
All shame the mighty, first made last,
And raise again the dead.


“For who hath despised the day of small things?” —Zechariah 4:10
“That no flesh should glory in his presence.” —1 Corinthians 1:29




V. The Final War


But lo—the plain of Megiddo waits.
And there the hosts shall make their claim.
The kings of earth shall tempt their fates,
And Heaven shall not tame.


The King returns. The Lamb with flame.
The earth shall crack. The sky shall split.
And all shall tremble at His name
When every throne is lit.


And Zion shines, no longer mocked—
Her gates swing wide, with angel pride.
The eastern hill where Christ once walked
Shall burst with angels at His side.


“And his feet shall stand… upon the mount of Olives…” —Zechariah 14:4
“And the LORD shall be king over all the earth.” —Zechariah 14:9




VI. Envoi: The Captain’s Decree


I am Michael. I speak to the ring.
To the dark, to the drones, to the iron-wing.


Touch her—and ye touch the flame.
Mock her—and ye mock His name.
Surround her—and ye stir the sky.
Lift sword—and ye shall surely die.


For the LORD is with her in thunder and hush.
In fire, in scroll, in trumpet rush.
The fig tree lives. The remnant sings.
And Zion is the throne of kings.


Let them gather. Let them rise.
Let the proud red clouds arise—
But the smallest flame defies the skies—
And the Lord of Hosts shall not divide.


“As birds flying, so will the LORD of hosts defend Jerusalem.” —Isaiah 31:5
“The LORD in the midst of thee is mighty; he will save…” —Zephaniah 3:17




🕎 Final Blessing:


“He that scattered Israel will gather him, and keep him, as a shepherd doth his flock.” —Jeremiah 31:10
“And I will bless them that bless thee, and curse him that curseth thee…” —Genesis 12:3

Written by Marguerite Grace

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🕊 Every Wound Shall Return 🕊

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Heaven’s Ledger of Justice and Memory


🕊 Every Wound Shall Return 🕊


Heaven’s Ledger of Justice and Memory




I. The Ground That Remembered


Genesis 4:10 – “Thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground.”


The soil bore the heat of a cry too old to be named,
Cain’s shadow stamped in the dust, yet warm with murder.
And no one saw—but Heaven burned, remembering.
A blade, a brother, a silence. A sentence carved in blood.
The earth received what man refused to carry.
God did not forget. The wound was not allowed to close.




II. The Poisoned Mouth


Psalm 5:9 – “For there is no faithfulness in their mouth…”


They spoke in silken threads of lies, stitched neat
into the garments of trust. And when they laughed,
they left behind a throat of ash.
The tongue, once made for blessing, became a blade.
Yet every word—idle, cruel, veiled—was inked in Heaven.
The scroll was opened. The venom had a name.




III. The Lifted Hand


Isaiah 10:1 – “Woe unto them that decree unrighteous decrees…”


A hand signed silence on the record, and silence became law.
They raised no blade—but pushed the ink across the line
and let the blade descend elsewhere.
The lifted hand was not clean. Nor was it unseen.
It trembled before the throne where scrolls are sealed.
God will weigh the hand—not the excuse it bore.




IV. The Heart That Loved Itself


James 4:6 – “God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace unto the humble.”


It was not murder, not theft—only glory that could not be shared.
The mirror was worshipped. The poor were forgotten.
The proud heart pulsed in its golden shell.
But Heaven’s trumpet blew against its boast.
And the breath of God cracked the shell like judgment.
The proud are always brought low—by their own height.






V. The Ones Left Behind


Psalm 68:5 – “A father of the fatherless, and a judge of the widows…”


They were not loud enough to be believed.
Not clean enough to be protected.
Not strong enough to be chosen.
The world looked away. But God came close.
He marked the orphan, the widow, the raped, the ruined—
and wrote them in His palm, where no one can erase.




VI. The Beds of Treachery


2 Peter 2:14 – “Beguiling unstable souls…”


A bed was made, but not for rest.
It was carved for conquest, clothed in lies.
She was promised a future—he took her voice instead.
And the world said: “She opened the door.”
But God said: “I heard her cry when no one else did.”
And the bed became a witness.




VII. The Taking


Jeremiah 17:11 – “He that getteth riches, and not by right… shall leave them in the midst of his days.”


They took what was not theirs: land, womb, name, peace.
And still they dined on spoils, swore God was with them.
But Heaven does not sign false deeds.
Each stolen thing sings a dirge before the throne.
And the day shall come when the taker’s hands are empty,
but the one who lost shall be restored.




VIII. The Masquerade


Matthew 23:27 – “Ye are like unto whited sepulchres…”


They wore God like a cloak.
Crossed themselves with filth on their fingers.
Preached love with hearts full of knives.
But the altar does not forget. The veil sees through the veil.
And when the Lamb returns, He will not come for robes—
He will come for the bare soul.




IX. The Laughter at the Wrong Time


Proverbs 17:5 – “Whoso mocketh the poor reproacheth his Maker…”


They laughed as she broke.
Laughed when the child stumbled, when the widow pleaded,
when the prophet wept.
But God does not forget a single scoff.
The echo of cruel laughter is recorded.
And the fire remembers how it sounded.




X. The Seat of Power


Micah 3:11 – “The heads thereof judge for reward…”


They sat on thrones made of bribes,
and called injustice peace.
They hushed the innocent with protocol.
But Heaven has no respect for titles.
Only truth survives the throne of fire.
And kings shall kneel where they once condemned.




XI. The Innocents


Luke 17:2 – “Better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck…”


Their names were not written in history,
but Heaven wrote them in light.
Tiny bones beneath cold soil—
but their cry is hot in the ears of God.
He will avenge what no one else saw.
He always has. He always will.




XII. The Silence of the Church


James 4:17 – “To him that knoweth to do good, and doeth it not…”


The pews were full, but the cries were drowned.
The pulpit echoed doctrines while daughters disappeared.
And still they sang. Still they passed the plate.
But the silence thundered in the courts of Heaven.
And the candles went out one by one.
For the Bridegroom will not wed a sleeping bride.




XIII. The Blameless One


Isaiah 53:9 – “He had done no violence, neither was any deceit in his mouth.”


They chose Barabbas.
The only innocent Man was nailed where the guilty stood.
But the grave could not keep Him.
And the cross still speaks louder than the crown.
Woe to the one who lifts a hand against the blameless.
Heaven records every lash, even the ones done in silence.




XIV. The Final Telling


Revelation 20:12 – “And the books were opened…”


Every wound returned. Not in vengeance,
but in fire.
For justice is not forgetting—it is remembering with a sword.
And the sword was never yours, child. It was His.
And He wielded it clean.




XV. The Assurance for the Faithful


Psalm 34:18 – “The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart…”


You who weep—you who were crushed and walked on:
He is coming.
Not with platitudes, not with delay,
but with truth sharper than your pain.
He did not forget. He never looked away.
And every wound shall return—to Him.
That He may heal it, name it, and never let it be hidden again.

Written by Marguerite Grace

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🕊 You Do Not Know What God Can Do 🕊

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🕊 You Do Not Know What God Can Do 🕊


The Scroll of the Little Made Mighty
By a Prophetess of the Coming Flame


I. The First Light Is Small


You do not know what God can do.
His wonders start in whispered breath.
He walks in hush before He burns.
He cloaks His glory low in death.


“For who hath despised the day of small things?” — Zechariah 4:10
“And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.” — Genesis 1:2


Before He carved the night from day,
He hovered on the formless deep.
He sang the dark to trembling light,
And called the dust to rise from sleep.


He split the man to form a bride,
A garden bloomed before a crown.
One boat bore all the living kind—
While judgment cast the mighty down.


“Thus did Noah; according to all that God commanded him, so did he.” — Genesis 6:22


II. The Pattern That Echoes


He called an old man from his tent,
Named him “friend” with barren hand.
Sarah laughed—yet laughter came,
And Isaac cried from promised land.


“Is any thing too hard for the LORD?” — Genesis 18:14
“And he believed in the LORD; and he counted it to him for righteousness.” — Genesis 15:6


Jacob limped from holy strife.
Joseph wept from dungeon stones.
But Israel groaned—and fire replied,
God broke their chains and split their groans.


“I have surely seen the affliction of my people… and I am come down to deliver them.” — Exodus 3:7–8


A bush enflamed yet unconsumed.
A rod that cracked the desert wide.
A lamb that marked the doors with flame—
While angels passed and Pharaoh died.


“When I see the blood, I will pass over you…” — Exodus 12:13


Deborah rose where men withdrew.
Jael drove truth through sleeping lies.
Gideon dreamed of barley loaves—
And scattered armies in surprise.


“Surely I will be with thee, and thou shalt smite the Midianites as one man.” — Judges 6:16


Jephthah marched from exile’s ash.
Samson broke his grave with might.
And David, child with harp and stone,
Felled giants by the Lord of Light.


“The LORD that delivered me… will deliver me out of the hand of this Philistine.” — 1 Samuel 17:37


III. Prophets in the Fire


A widow’s jar refused to drain.
The meal endured through famine’s year.
Elijah mocked the Baalites’ roar—
Then called down flame and drew them near.


“Then the fire of the LORD fell, and consumed the burnt sacrifice…” — 1 Kings 18:38


Elisha watched the sky ignite.
He bade the blind see fire on high.
He raised the axe from river’s sleep,
And showed the armies in the sky.


“They that be with us are more than they that be with them.” — 2 Kings 6:16


Isaiah’s tongue was purged with flame.
Jeremiah wept in stocks and shame.
Ezekiel walked through rattling bones—
And heard them rise and name His name.


“O ye dry bones, hear the word of the LORD.” — Ezekiel 37:4


Daniel knelt with windows wide.
Lions slept where saints were found.
Three men stood inside the blaze—
And walked with One whose steps astound.


“Lo, I see four men loose… and the form of the fourth is like the Son of God.” — Daniel 3:25


Esther fasted. Thrones were turned.
The wicked swung from gallows made.
A hidden Jew, a royal crown—
Undid the trap the traitor laid.


“And who knoweth whether thou art come to the kingdom for such a time as this?” — Esther 4:14


IV. The Coming and the Cross


When Caesar ruled with iron jaw,
And earth lay shrouded, mute in gloom—
He entered not by royal gate,
But through a virgin’s borrowed womb.


“For unto you is born… a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.” — Luke 2:11
“And she shall bring forth a son… thou shalt call his name JESUS.” — Matthew 1:21


No palace welcomed, no one bowed.
He slept beneath the shepherd’s sky.
He walked with poor, broke bread with scorned,
And healed with spit and lifted eye.


“Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.” — Matthew 5:5


They mocked and pierced the Lamb of God.
They crowned Him thorns and cursed His breath.
Yet death, once proud, could not contain—
The stone rolled back. He conquered death.


“He is not here: for he is risen, as he said.” — Matthew 28:6


V. The Flame That Marched Through Time


You do not know what God can do.
The scroll still burns with living flame.
Though tyrants bled the saints and scribes,
He carved His truth through blood and name.


“The word of God is not bound.” — 2 Timothy 2:9


The foxes fled. The martyrs sang.
Their ashes stirred the holy rings.
And when His Word was bound by chains—
He loosed the world with printing springs.


Luther stood. Tyndale burned.
The living Word ran mouth to mouth.
And through the night of chattel pain,
God’s praises soared across the South.


Joan heard thunder. Wilberforce wept.
Bonhoeffer prayed beneath the noose.
In camps of smoke, His name was sung—
And still the seed breaks through the noose.


VI. The Return to Zion


Who is like Israel, lone and scarred?
The smallest branch—yet carved in stone.
Surrounded, scourged, but not erased—
She lives. She stands. She weeps. She’s known.


“He that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.” — Psalm 121:4


From Babylon to Hitler’s hell,
From broken scrolls to blooming trees—
The dry bones clicked, the fig tree sprouted.
The child returned across the seas.


“Can a nation be born at once? for as soon as Zion travailed, she brought forth her children.” — Isaiah 66:8


VII. The Rising of the Lion


O proud and blind—take heed and weep:
You do not know what God can do.
Your empires, towers, tyrants, tech—
Shall shatter when His breath breaks through.


“Behold, he cometh with clouds; and every eye shall see him.” — Revelation 1:7
“The Lion of the tribe of Juda… hath prevailed.” — Revelation 5:5


The sky shall rip. The graves shall split.
The King shall ride on flame and flood.
And every crown shall drop or burn
Before the Lamb who washed with blood.


VIII. The Final Cry of the Prophetess


So I—this daughter robed in dust,
With fire sealed behind my tongue—
Cry out to ears asleep in ease:
He comes. He comes. The Judge. The Son.


“Prepare to meet thy God, O Israel.” — Amos 4:12


He hides His strength in cradle limbs.
He binds the stars with linen thread.
He lifts the weak. He breaks the proud.
He calls the buried from the dead.


You do not know what God can do.
But I have seen, and I declare:
He builds His kingdom, stone by stone,
And plants His throne in hearts laid bare.


“But God hath chosen the foolish things… to confound the wise.” — 1 Corinthians 1:27
“And in the days of these kings shall the God of heaven set up a kingdom, which shall never be destroyed…” — Daniel 2:44


Written by Marguerite Grace
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🕊 The Flame of Michael: Defender of the Chosen “Who is like God?” — the war-cry and the name of the Prince of Heaven. 🕊️ 

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🕊 The Flame of Michael: Defender of the Chosen
 
“Who is like God?” — the war-cry and the name of the Prince of Heaven. 🕊️ 


I. The First Sword Drawn


Before there was a garden,
before the stars were strung like beads across the firmament,
there rose a hush in Heaven’s halls—
a hush before rebellion.


Lucifer, robed in brightness,
walked proud among the stones of fire.
He whispered want into the pure.
He sought a throne.
He sought ascent.
He fell.


Then thundered Michael.


Not with question, but with answer:
“Who is like God?” — the cry became the blade.
And Michael, prince of warriors,
stood with Heaven’s host arrayed.


“There was war in heaven,” the scrolls declare—
Michael and his angels fought against the dragon.
And the dragon, swollen with lies and pride,
was cast unto the earth,
his tail sweeping stars in ruin behind.


Thus Michael’s sword was blooded—not with blood,
but with glory.
His war was holy.
His strength, from the Almighty.


II. Guardian of Israel


As Abraham rose, called from Ur,
and the seed of promise kindled in the dust,
God gave them not to kings or chariots—
but to angels who move like wind among the nations.


Michael stood as chief among them—
“the great prince which standeth for the children of thy people,”
as Daniel saw, with face to ground,
his knees trembling in the vision’s fire.


He wars not always in the open;
he contends in realms unseen.


Withstood by the prince of Persia,
he came to Gabriel’s aid—
and for three and twenty days,
he broke the darkness.


“None holdeth with me in these things,”
Gabriel said, “but Michael.”


He is not of this age,
but watches over ages.
His charge: Israel.
His mission: to protect the covenant
when men break it.


And though she stumbles,
and though she sins,
he shields her from annihilation.


III. Through the Ages


When Babylon rose like a lion from the dust,
when Rome’s iron ground the temple stones,
Michael watched—
not with hand always drawn,
but with the patience of eternity.


The rabbis whispered of him.
The martyrs prayed for him.
The mystics called him in the night.


In the dead of the Holocaust,
did not unseen wings hold back the utter end?


When nations ringed Jerusalem
and called for her bones,
still she stood.


Not by power, nor by might,
but by the One who sends Michael as flame,
as shield,
as sword.


In every pogrom, every exile, every fire—
he kept the remnant,
that Messiah might come.


And come He did.


IV. The Time of Trouble


Daniel spoke of days not yet:
“There shall be a time of trouble,
such as never was since there was a nation…”


And in that hour,
Michael shall stand.


Not hidden.
Not unseen.
But revealed.


When the dragon returns with wrath,
when the woman clothed in sun must flee,
when the beast demands a mark—
Michael shall rise.


He shall cast down again.


And his sword shall not sleep.


V. Present Day and the Rising Flame


Now, Israel dwells again in her land—
but peace is fragile.
Threats rise like smoke from the north,
like fire from the east,
like hatred from every corner.


And still—Michael stands.


Do you see the iron dome?
The rockets fall and fail?


Do you see the child,
weeping in the rubble spared?


Not all that God does is loud.


Michael is near.
He moves where faith still lingers,
and the name of the Lord is remembered.


He does not fight for politics,
nor for kings,
but for covenant.


And when the last trumpet sounds,
he shall descend again with shout,
with the voice of an archangel—
and the dead in Christ shall rise.


VI. The End and the Crown


He who guarded Eden with flaming sword,
He who cast down Lucifer,
He who shielded Israel through furnace and flood,
shall march in the last war.


Revelation speaks:
Michael and his angels… again.


The final war is not yet fought—
but soon.


The Mount of Olives shall split.
The sky shall break like scrolls unsealed.
The Lamb shall ride,
and Michael shall lead the host.


And when all nations bow—
and all who war against the Lord are ash—
Michael shall sheathe his sword at last.


VII. Eternal Flame


But his name shall shine forever—
as guardian,
as prince,
as servant of the Lord of Hosts.


So when you fear, O child of Jacob,
and the earth is dark,
and the stones are thrown,
and the fire comes near—


Lift your eyes.


Michael is near.
He stands where God commands.
He fights when God says, “Now.”
And he waits—for the signal to descend,
when Heaven’s King reclaims the earth.


Until then…
Who is like God?
That cry still splits the darkness.


And the answer still flies on unseen wings.


Written by Marguerite Grace
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🕯 Soft Weight in the Undersoil 🕯

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🕯 Soft Weight in the Undersoil 🕯



There is a sound beneath all sound—
a hush that kneels below both bell and dirge.
It speaks where mouths forget to move,
where knuckles bloom from learning silence,
where something yields, not under law,
but by the ache with which stone learns surrender.


A body learns what pressure sculpts—
not by doctrine, nor decree—
but by the groan of wood beneath a heel,
the gasp withheld a breath too long,
the iron tang of unopened rooms,
the tilt of ceilings bending toward the spine.


No names are carved in such a soil.
No signs are nailed where absence governs.
What happens here is not an act—
but a slow unraveling, atom by thread,
like fibers tugged from a widow’s sleeve,
or rainfall drunk by the thirst of graves.


The air gives no defense, no plea,
offers no hand, nor asks a why.
It only alters—then alters again—
as if to murmur: You have not died.
And not-dying becomes the proof,
though none can name the hour it began.


Not broken. Not spared. Not crowned.
Only changed—beyond all telling.
Stillness thickens where pain once nested,
and from that stillness, form will rise—
not as triumph, nor as flight,
but as the knowing of what dark can cradle.


So hear me, O Crusher of the Bent—
do not mistake me for unmade.
The weight you cast has found its bed.
I carry it, still breathing. Still becoming.
And though I bear no mark you named,
I will remember how you pressed.

Written by Marguerite Grace

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🕯 The Acts of the Damned: A Lamentation of the Last Days 🕯

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🕯 The Acts of the Damned: A Lamentation of the Last Days 🕯




Lo, children, hear what the Watcher sees—




I. The Smoke That Rose from Babel’s Mouth


(Where the First Fire Was Kindled)


Lo, children, hear what the Watcher sees—
A world baptized in blasphemies,
Where demons crawl through gilded halls,
And every nation drinks and falls.
It was not always thus, O dust,
But pride did breed the serpent’s rust.


“And they said, Go to, let us build us a city and a tower, whose top may reach unto heaven… and let us make us a name…”
—Genesis 11:4


The tower climbed, the heavens cracked—
And devils danced as men attacked
The holy bounds of God’s decree,
And bartered truth for sorcery.
The sins of Babel never died—
They changed their names. They learned to hide.




II. The Acts of Devils and Their Seeds


(A World That Called Evil Good)


They slaughter children in the womb,
They carve out altars, name them “room.”
They call it choice—but it is death,
The womb becomes the dragon’s breath.


“They sacrificed their sons and their daughters unto devils.”
—Psalm 106:37


They turn the man against his kind,
And teach the boy to flee his mind.
They dress the soul in painted lies,
And bless rebellion as the prize.


They traffic flesh, they sell the poor,
They rape the land, then call for more.
They bow to gold, adore the screen,
And blind their eyes from what is seen.


“Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil…”
—Isaiah 5:20




III. From Days of Old Till Now


(How the Old Gods Changed Their Names)


As it was in ancient Tyre,
The music played around the fire.
As in Canaan’s seething shrines,
Where children bled between the pines.


“They built the high places of Baal… to cause their sons and their daughters to pass through the fire unto Molech.”
—Jeremiah 32:35


These acts returned in cloaked attire—
In Rome’s decay, in Nazi choir.
In modern courts, where blood is sold,
And innocence is bought for gold.


The devil’s tools are still the same—
Deceit, division, lust, and fame.
He whispers, “Thou shalt not surely die,”
As he did once in Eden’s lie.


“Ye shall not surely die… ye shall be as gods.”
—Genesis 3:4–5




IV. The Toolbox of the Serpent


(How Reason Was Used Against Truth)


He works through science void of soul,
Through vain philosophies that roll
Like thunderclouds with no true rain,
Professing light but breeding pain.


He shouts through screens, through silent laws,
Through pride’s applause and reason’s claws.
He quotes the Scripture, twists the verse—
And leads men smiling to the curse.


“For Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light.”
—2 Corinthians 11:14


Smoke and mirrors, signs and spells—
The dragon plays where reason dwells.
He reads the Book—he knows the end,
Yet plots to drag down foe and friend.


“The devil is come down unto you, having great wrath, because he knoweth that he hath but a short time.”
—Revelation 12:12




V. The Curse Passed Down


(Of Generations That Reap What Was Sown)


And when a father mocks the Lord,
And lifts his hand against the Word,
The child shall drink what he has sown,
And reap the field he did not own.


“Visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation.”
—Exodus 20:5


A house of lust breeds daughters shamed,
Their names half-lost, their hearts defamed.
A drunken oath becomes a chain,
And sons are branded with the stain.
The father’s wrath becomes the war
His seed must fight forevermore.




VI. The Difference of the Christ


(The Flame That Cannot Lie)


But Jesus came with sword and flame,
To rend the lie and speak His Name.
He touched the leper, raised the dead,
And crushed the tempter’s serpent head.


He gave no ear to worldly pride,
But walked in truth and never lied.
He fed the poor, forgave the worst—
And broke the back of Babel’s curse.


“For this purpose the Son of God was manifested, that he might destroy the works of the devil.”
—1 John 3:8


He said, “Take up thy cross and follow,”
Not “Chase thy gold and drink the hollow.”
His gospel is a holy fire—
It burns the flesh and kills desire.




VII. The Coming Judgment


(Where Fire Meets the Throne)


He cometh soon on clouds of wrath,
To burn the chaff along His path.
The books shall open—none shall flee,
And every soul shall bend the knee.


“Behold, the Lord cometh with ten thousands of his saints, to execute judgment upon all…”
—Jude 1:14–15


The harlot’s wine shall be poured back,
Upon her head a crown of black.
The kings of earth shall wail and hide,
But none shall from His face abide.


“And I saw a great white throne, and him that sat on it, from whose face the earth and the heaven fled away…”
—Revelation 20:11




VIII. The Cry of Warning


(The Trumpet Bleeds Into the Day)


Repent, O earth! The day is near,
The Son of Man shall soon appear.
No mirror then, no smoke shall veil—
The Lamb shall roar, the Judge unveil.


The demons writhe, the angels still,
The Bride prepares on Zion’s hill.
The hour bleeds. The sky turns pale—
The winds begin to lift the veil.




IX. The Final Word


(Two Names. One Fire.)


The devil lies, but Christ is true—
One binds in chains, the other renews.
Choose ye this day whom thou wilt serve—
For wrath is coming, swift and curved.


“And whosoever was not found written in the book of life was cast into the lake of fire.”
—Revelation 20:15


“Whosoever shall call on the name of the Lord shall be saved.”
—Romans 10:13


Lo, children, flee what the Watcher sees—
The smoke is rising in the air.
Do not be lulled by velvet sin—
For Christ shall rise—and He shall win.




🕯 Envoi 🕯


Here endeth the lament.
He that hath ears, let him hear.
The time is short. The fire is lit.
The King is near.

Written by Marguerite Grace

Copyright Protected

🕯 The Two Lions: The Crowned and the Withheld 

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🕯 The Two Lions: The Crowned and the Withheld 


🕯As Witnessed by the Prophetess of the Sealed Mystery


🔥 The Record Opens


I sought the sealed scrolls—then they unfurled.
Veiled truths stirred; the hidden exhaled.
Names that blaze, others that fade:
Twelve tribes sealed; one turned mute.
Dan, the sentinel, erased from the ledger,
yet murmured by Bashan’s winds.


Judah roared atop Zion’s height—
his breath, thunder over peaks.
Dan leapt from uncharted crags,
a shadow-lion etched in stone.


“The secret things belong unto the Lord our God…” —Deuteronomy 29:29


🦁 The Two Lions Named


Twice, within the sacred lineage,
Heaven named a lion’s cub—
Not Reuben, tempestuous waters,
Nor Levi, fire’s bearer,
Nor Joseph, the well’s fruitful bough.


Only crown and claw endure:
Judah and Dan,
the anointed and the warrior-anointed.
One crowned in solar glory,
the other veiled in dusk’s shroud.
One revealed, drawing every knee,
the other withheld, earth’s memory dimmed.


“Judah is a lion’s whelp…” —Genesis 49:9
“Dan is a lion’s whelp: he shall leap from Bashan.” —Deuteronomy 33:22


📜 The Twelve Named, and the One Withheld


Twelve stood where Sinai wept with fire—
each bearing a banner, each cradling a stone.
Reuben, Levi, Simeon, and Judah;
Zebulun, Issachar, flank to flank,
Gad and Asher, fierce as flint,
Naphtali swift, Benjamin bold,
Joseph—split as twins of strength:
Ephraim’s horn and Manasseh’s shield.


They filled the camp like stars in order,
bore the Ark through fire’s rain and manna’s hush.


Yet among the twelve, only two were likened to the beast—
Judah and Dan, lion-blooded both.
Only they were named as cubs of flame,
the lion’s whelp in sacred breath.


No other bore the lion’s mark—
not Levi, though he held the coal,
not Ephraim, crowned in Joseph’s line,
not Reuben, breaker of the womb.


Only the Crown—and the Claw.
Only the Lion seen—and the one withheld.


👑 Judah, the Crowned Lion


Judah, lion of dawn,
couched in silence, cloaked in scepter’s stillness.
From his loins the Sceptre flowered—
Messiah, Root and Righteous Branch.


Lion of Judah, Lamb enthroned,
He stood ‘twixt porch and broken veil,
and bore the weight of wrath for all.


He roared—not to devour,
but to deliver sons from death.


“The sceptre shall not depart from Judah… until Shiloh come.” —Genesis 49:10


🌒 Dan, the Withheld Lion


Dan, dusk-borne lion,
was given neither psalm nor seat.
Exiled to Bashan’s jagged edge,
a cub with claws beneath the stone.


No priest enflamed his gate with praise;
no altar bore his name in flame.
Yet the Lord did name him—
and prophecy, not punishment, withheld.


He was young might beneath the frost,
a blade unloosed from northern stone.
A serpent crouched beside the trail—yes, perilous—
but judgment is peril to the wicked.
He struck when justice limped;
he rose when golden gods were crushed.


“Dan shall judge his people, as one of the tribes of Israel.” —Genesis 49:16
“Dan is a lion’s whelp: he shall leap from Bashan.” —Deuteronomy 33:22
“A serpent by the way… that biteth the horse heels…” —Genesis 49:17


🕳 The Omission


Dan could not anchor the western plains;
the sea-fanged Philistines surged.
So he turned to the hush of the north,
took Laish—and named it Dan.


But in the heights, a golden calf rose;
a Levite bent to forge the dark,
and idols grinned in the lion’s den.


Thus—he vanished.
From the sealed count,
his name slipped into sacred silence.


“Of the tribe of Joseph were sealed…” —Revelation 7:7–8
❌ Dan is not named.


His stone removed from priestly breast,
his banner absent from heaven’s breath,
his portion sleeps in northern hush.


But silence is not death.
Withholding is not disgrace.
Dan is not erased.
Dan is preserved.


“For the gifts and calling of God are without repentance.” —Romans 11:29


🧠 The Whisper of the Wise


Irenaeus shuddered at his name,
Hippolytus traced the dim-lit shape—
“From Dan,” they warned, “the Beast may rise.”


They saw the serpent—never the lion.
They read the crouch, but missed the leap.


The rabbis drew maps in flame and fear;
Kabbalah trembled through Gevurah,
the chamber of clenched thunder.


And there—it came—Dan slumbers still.
Not broken, but braced.
Not cast out, but kept.


“He discovereth deep things out of darkness…” —Job 12:22


🦁 The Four Stages of the Lion


1. The Whelp — Covenant Flame
In both, the lion is birthed in blood.
Young—not soft.
Chosen—not enthroned.
Judah bore a king in waiting.
Dan a blade yet unsheathed.


2. The Crouch — Hidden Strength
Judah crouched, a throne in shadows.
Dan crouched, coiled in exile’s mist.
One waited to reign,
the other—to rupture.


3. The Leap — Prophetic Eruption
Dan shall leap from Bashan’s crags—
not crowned, but consecrated.
Not in rage, but in reckoning.
The earth will shudder
when the forgotten roars again.


4. The Crown — The Day of the Judge
Only Judah bears the diadem.
Yet no kingdom stands complete
without the claw that guards its wall.
Dan shall not rule—
but he shall rise beside the flame
when the Judge returns with fire.


🜂 The Question of the Fire


Was he shaped for vengeance—
or forged for vindication?
Will the sealed claw guard the fold,
or tear it for its trespass?
Only the Flame that knows the marrow
can say if the leap will wound—or warn.


🗡 The Great Battle Foretold


Will he leap toward the Throne—or upon it?
Will he rise as sword in God’s grip,
or claw that rends the final veil?


Armageddon kindles in Megiddo’s mouth.
The sealed will rise.
The withheld will awaken.
And the lion the world forgot—shall roar.


But tell me—
which banner will he bear?


🜃 The Witness and the Weight


I saw the record not scribed by hands,
where silence sang and stone recalled.
I heard names buried in ash,
and the footfall of one uncounted.


Not erased—but sealed.
Not fallen—but veiled in flame.


A voice was given to dust—
a burden where only psalms should sit.
I did not seek the sealed things.
But I was shown what the elders dared not name.


And now—I give account.


🜁 The Closing of the Witness


This I declare in the breath before thunder:
The lion of the north shall rise.
The silenced tribe shall be remembered.
The hush shall rend like Shiloh’s veil,
and what was veiled shall walk unveiled.


This is no psalm of a penman,
no tale dreamt in twilight.
This is witness—
from the one who heard beneath the deep,
and wept at the gate unseen.


He was not lost.
Not broken.
Not erased.
He was withheld—for fire.


And now—
🕯
He rises.


Written by Marguerite Grace
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🕊 The Inheritance That Was Hidden: A Prophecy of Dan 🕊

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🕊 The Inheritance That Was Hidden: A Prophecy of Dan 🕊


Proclaimed by the Daughter of Snow and Bird, Handmaiden of the Lord


I am the daughter of Snow and of Bird,
names not given by men,
but carved in silence,
chosen in defiance of forgetting—
spoken as covenant,
that the blood would not vanish,
nor the soul be erased from God’s remembrance.


Snow was not the beginning.
She was the one who remembered.
Her name rose like mist from the riverbed,
from women who spoke not in English,
but in the tongue of the holy wind—
those who nursed their children
beneath trees untouched by the axe of empire,
those who turned their faces eastward
when they prayed.


Long before white men came with flags and decree,
before borders cut the hills like wounds,
they walked with sacred rhythm.
They knew the name of fire and sky.
They knew the law of harvest and hush.


But in the year of mourning,
eighteen hundred and thirty-eight,
when the Trail of Tears tore through the land,
my grandmother’s great-grandmother,
a full-blooded Cherokee,
stood at the crossroads of silence and survival.
And she chose the name Snow—
not for the cold,
but for what remains pure when all else is stained.


She took no number.
She signed no paper.
She walked no trail where death lay in wait.
She stayed—
and the name stayed with her.
It walked to me.


And Bird—
that name, too, was chosen,
passed down through my father’s line
long before the turning of the century—
carried in hush.
Whether by mother’s whisper or father’s vow, I cannot say—
only that the name endured.


Bird—not for flight,
but for the watching gift,
the song kept low,
the still eye in the limb
when the storm bends every bough.


She kept that name in stillness,
and it was not broken.
It perched in our blood.
It endured.


I am the child of such choosing.
I am the root and the wing,
the earth beneath, the sky above,
the silence remembered,
the promise still burning.


And I am a chosen one of God.


Not only in Spirit,
but by the blood,
by the name,
and by the seal of the Lamb.


He is not a Jew, which is one outwardly; neither is that circumcision, which is outward in the flesh:
But he is a Jew, which is one inwardly; and circumcision is that of the heart, in the spirit, and not in the letter;
whose praise is not of men, but of God.
—Romans 2:28–29 (KJV)


And I—
I am both.
Inwardly and by name.
Not through the lineage of empire,
but through the line of the hidden ones.
The Spirit bears witness,
and the Name remembers me.


The Lord opened my sight,
and I beheld the tribe of Dan.


Twelfth born of Jacob,
called judge among his brethren,
likened to a serpent by the way,
an adder in the path,
Dan, whose name was strength and shadow.


Dan shall judge his people, as one of the tribes of Israel.
—Genesis 49:16 (KJV)


Dan shall be a serpent by the way, an adder in the path,
that biteth the horse heels, so that his rider shall fall backward.
—Genesis 49:17 (KJV)


And of Dan he said, Dan is a lion’s whelp:
he shall leap from Bashan.
—Deuteronomy 33:22 (KJV)


They received inheritance,
but did not hold it.
Pressed by the Philistine,
they rose and fled—
to Laish, and called it Dan.


And the coast of the children of Dan went out too little for them:
therefore the children of Dan went up to fight against Leshem,
and took it, and smote it with the edge of the sword, and possessed it,
and dwelt therein, and called Leshem, Dan, after the name of Dan their father.
—Joshua 19:47 (KJV)


But their wandering did not end.


Their name faded from remembrance.
Their place was not among the sealed.
Yet the Spirit whispered:
They were not lost.
They were hidden.


I beheld them—
after the scroll closed,
after the scribes had turned away—
in the lands of ice and steel,
riding waves in vessels of thunder.
Their words changed,
but their fire remained.
They became storm-bearers,
unwritten by scribes,
but engraved in Heaven’s keeping.


And I saw them again—
borne across the waters
to Turtle Island,
where the cedars still whispered
and the Great Spirit walked unseen.


There among the first peoples,
they buried their name
but not their fire.
Their blood remembered Sinai.
Their hands still shaped offerings,
though no altar stood.


The Cherokee did not name them Dan—
but they moved like judges,
and they burned like the hidden flame.


And other sheep I have, which are not of this fold:
them also I must bring, and they shall hear my voice;
and there shall be one fold, and one shepherd.
—John 10:16 (KJV)


And now He bringeth them.
The hidden awaken.
The buried rise.


I am not of Dan by written decree,
but I am of Dan by calling.
The root hath found me.
The voice hath claimed me.


God hid them—
not in wrath,
but in reserve.
Like a sword unsheathed only for war,
a sealed blade waiting,
buried thunder beneath the hills.


And lo, that day draweth nigh.


Upon the plain of Megiddo,
where the kings of the earth shall assemble,
and the Lamb shall descend in glory,
Dan shall rise.


The lion’s whelp shall leap.
The adder shall strike—
not in treachery,
but in righteousness.


They shall ride with the Lord of Hosts.
Their eyes shall blaze with judgment.
Their tongues shall speak no guile.
The forgotten shall be feared,
and the sealed shall remember them.


And if I,
daughter of Snow and Bird,
should stand upon Zion’s holy height,
I shall fall upon my face
and kiss the dust—
a daughter come home at last.


If my flesh cannot bear the glory,
then let it fall.
For no mortal bears such light.
We shall be changed.


Behold, I am Dan reborn,
Snow-born,
Bird-blessed,
Christ-bought,
not forgotten,
but preserved,
not numbered among men,
but named in the Lamb’s resolve.


The inheritance was not lost.
It was buried in me.


And now—
the hidden inheritance speaks.


Written by Marguerite Grace
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🜂 Fable: The Song of the Hidden Three 🜂

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(Pulled from the Sky-Library. Spoken thrice. Bound to none.)


🜂 Fable: The Song of the Hidden Three 🜂
(Pulled from the Sky-Library. Spoken thrice. Bound to none.)


☉ Prologue of the Folded Flame


Lo, when silence knew no breath, and breath knew not its shape,
The First Flame stirred where nothing was—
And the Three, who were not yet known, folded their forms into time.


Before the first breath parted dark,
Ere speech was cast in spark and mark,
There stirred a Form no tongue could claim—
Threefold, and folding, all the same.
It whispered not, yet worlds were bent,
Its body flame, its root unmeant.


It moved as thought ere thought took hold,
And passed through dusk in veils of gold.
It tarried not with mortal kind,
But slipped through bone, and breath, and mind.
Not fable, no—nor dream, nor lie,
But truth too vast for stars to try.


The Feathered One in stillness knelt,
Where thirsting Time in silence dwelt.
He carved it high upon the tomb—
A wound in light, a seal of gloom.
Three breaths he gave. Three fires he lit:
For soul, for writ, for that which flits—
The watching eye where fissures sit.


Then spake the one who counted sound—
The Ion-born in ratios wound.
He tuned the void to spiral rings,
And mapped the pulse of hidden strings.
He named it not, but heard its chord—
A music only gods afford.


The Watcher of the Golden Frame
Did shape it deep in flesh and flame.
Within a smile, a womb, a hand—
He etched the law that girds the land.
No chisel knew, no pupil guessed
The Trine that hides in form and vest.
To stone he passed it—fire and wave—
And left no name upon his grave.


The glass-born builders, cloaked in prayer,
Wrought windows bright with hallowed air.
They bled the fire through fractured glass—
The triptych path none dare trespass.
And those who wept forgot they knew
The Third that binds what One and Two.


Lo, then the Orbit-Maker rose
And cast it wide where star-tide flows.
He named three truths that draw the sea
But held the fourth in secrecy.
Another knelt, where prism bent—
He dreamed of time’s unraveled tent.
He named the dark, but not the gate—
For Three alone may not translate.


And eastward still, where white snows bled,
Where monks drink silence, not their bread,
The Hidden Three descend as light
Upon the bough of bodhi night.
They do not teach. They do not tell.
They draw in air the sacred spell.


The Prophet of the Quill of Flame
Did walk in threes, but bore no name.
From wood to star to mercy’s throne,
He wandered long and wept alone.
A woman clothed in emerald sheen
Did guide him through what none had seen.
He called her Lumen. She called him Flame.
Together sang the trine unnamed.


But when he touched the Final Seal—
His voice did crack, his flesh did peel.
He wrote no more. He spoke no verse.
He bore the glyph. He bore the curse.
It marked his bones. It seared his head.
He walked for years, but thought him dead.


The Widow came, Wire-bound and pale—
Three coils crowned where angels fail.
One hand bore life. One held the pain.
And one, the void that must remain.
A Raven wept beneath that arch—
He knew the Three. He sang their march.


The Seer of Storm, in shadow dressed,
Bore patterns burning in his chest.
He whispered, “Three… six… nine,” the fold—
The shape the sleeping stars foretold.
No ink he bore, but flash and fire—
His script: the arc the sparks require.
He spake it not. He did not rest.
The Pattern pulsed within his breast.


☍ The Oracle of the Broken String


She dreamed of harps with severed strings,
Of stars that fell in spiraled rings.
She whispered glyphs she could not read—
A silence etched in blood and seed.


Her fingers bled from phantom chords,
She named no gods. She knew no lords.
But when the world bent, bowed, and screamed—
She sang one note—and all things dreamed.


She broke the seal not with her hand,
But with the cry she could not stand.
The sky recoiled. The wind grew thin.
And breath returned what should have been.



And though the world forgot her cry,
It thrums through stone and stream and sky.
For every gate, and every law,
Was hewn by hands that silence saw.
The First Shape, folded into flame—
It holds no edge. It bears no name.


It sings through bone and burning wire,
Through clay and glass, through sea and pyre.
The Silent Trine, the Hidden Three,
Are found in dust and symmetry.
A daughter dreams it in her sleep.
A dying monk begins to weep.
A clock unwinds upon the sea—
Its final tick: a ternary.


It is not drawn. It is not told.
It binds the broken. Burns the cold.
It is the law no lore may hold—
The veiled crown, the flame of old.
It walks with kings. It dwells with thieves.
It hides itself in falling leaves.


And what of stars? The rarest one—
It blazes not. It is not spun.
It forms when silence splits the sky,
When breath and memory unify.
Not Vega, nor the Shepherd’s flame,
But one too hallowed for a name.


It sits where nothing else may be—
The eye within the Trinity.
Three mirrors turned in sacred flight:
One to the void, one to the night,
And one to that which shuns the light.


A girl in wires hums low and bright.
A chord breaks open in the night.
A code miswrites. A candle spins—
The Trine still whispers through our sins.
In circuits cracked and faces bare,
It stirs in lungs and lingers there.


And now, O bearer of this scroll,
The Pattern passes to thy soul.
Thou art the third, the final key—
The point unnamed in mystery.
And when thou draw’st, or speak’st, or sing’st,
The Form shall stir—the silent ring.


But speak it not. Let no word bind.
The Three were never signed nor signed.
Their tale is sung by none who know—
And only seen when stars lie low.


☉ Envoi of the Star-Cut Seal


It rose in flame. It ends in three.
Yet hides its face in memory.
One weeps. One dreams. One does not see.
Yet all are sung in symmetry.


Written by Marguerite Grace
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🕯 The Sundown of the Gibbor: A Lament Upon the High Place 🕯

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🕯 The Sundown of the Gibbor: A Lament Upon the High Place 🕯
(A Vision in the Waning of Tekufat Tammuz)


Lo, the sun goeth down upon blood-stained stone,
And setteth not in glory—but in grief.
Upon the far-off mount of Bashan lieth still
That one whom men of dust called Rephaim.
His bones are long as cedars cleft and crowned,
His sighs are caverns hollowed in the wind.


Yea, Tekufat Tammuz returneth once again—
The turning of the year when shadows thrice extend,
When watchers veil their faces in the west,
And time forgetteth what it dared to name.
The children of Anak pass not this way,
For the breath of him that sleepeth burneth the path.


Call him not by name, O wanderer: beware—
His name is writ in lightning and sealed beneath the flood.
Some named him Ar’khan of the Eastern Winds,
Others, Yedidor the Hewer, or the First Wept Flame.
But he hath no name among the living—
Only among the stars that fell with him.


He was a king ere kings had tongues to speak,
His crown a ring of thorns and dawning fire.
The mountain groaneth ’neath his dreadful rest,
And trees grow crooked on his ancient brow.
Only a remnant—seers and ruined priests—
Know what he resteth on, and dare not say.


For he sleepeth not on stone, nor common soil,
But upon that which was the altar of the sky:
A shard of firmament, rent once by flame,
Where the oaths of the Watchers cracked and died.
Beneath him, the broken vow lies still—
Above him, silence clothed in God.


O Gibbor! Thy day is swallowed in the deep.
Thy sons are scattered dust on Edom’s wind,
And thy daughters—
Their songs are heard in dreams of madmen now.
Rest, thou fallen flame, rest.
The sun goeth down upon thee—forever.


Written by Marguerite Grace
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