A Sacred Lamentation and Prophetic Song of the End
The Watcher from the Threshold
A Sacred Lamentation and Prophetic Song of the End
Proclaim, ye heavens, the hour that draweth nigh,
When the sky, like a scroll, shall be rent asunder.
Bear witness, ye stars, who once did dance at dawn,
For the cry of the Watcher now calleth through the dust.
I am old—my sinews groan like withered branches,
My eyes, long watchers of the fig tree’s bloom.
I dwell beneath the eaves of time’s last wall,
Where light is weary, and the winds forget to play.
O Lord, remember Thy servant in the fading!
For I have kept oil in my vessel,
Though many lamps about me gutter low.
The night is full of feasting and no fear.
Yet I have stood, cloaked in ash and prayer.
Then lo! A sound—
Not of man, nor beast, nor trumpet forged of earth—
But a Shofar eternal, cleaving silence with flame.
The heavens parted like the garment of the High Priest,
And He descended, clothed in vengeance and white fire.
A horse beneath Him, pale as thunder,
And eyes aflame with justice long withheld.
He spake not, for the sound of His presence
Was judgment and mercy intertwined.
The graves broke their covenants of stillness.
I saw the righteous arise with robes not woven by hand.
They soared—not winged, but summoned—
Caught up as lightning to the eastern gate.
We rose behind them, like smoke from holy altars,
Our names echoing in the lips of angels.
The dead knew not corruption, nor we delay—
For time itself was undone.
Then was I drawn through light and crystal,
To the city not built by flesh nor sin.
Its walls were jasper, its streets like molten glass.
Twelve gates of pearl stood open to the just,
Each gate inscribed with names eternal.
No sun ruled there, nor moon kept watch—
For the Lamb is its light, and His face the day.
The sea was gone, but a river did flow,
Clear as promise, from beneath the throne.
Lo, my name!—engraved upon a pillar.
Lo, my house!—fashioned not by hands,
But by prayers, and tears, and obedience stored in jars.
The trumpet ceased, and silence fell—
A silence not of dread, but awe.
A table was laid across forever,
And the saints of old gathered in glory.
Elijah reclined beside the meek.
Ruth sat near the thief redeemed.
And lo—the Lord arose, a cup in His hand.
“This I vowed to drink anew with thee.”
The Bread of Heaven He broke once more,
And fed us with His scarred and sovereign love.
The wine of covenant flowed like mercy,
And the table became a wedding crown.
But beneath the firmament, Earth did groan.
Seals cracked like bones, and trumpets cried ruin.
The pale horse rode through nations unrepentant.
The sun clothed itself in sackcloth,
And the moon did blush with blood.
The man of sin ascended the temple mount,
Exalting himself above all that is holy.
He spoke great swelling words, and the world did swoon.
Men bore his mark upon hand and brow—
And the voice of Truth was driven to the wilderness.
The Whore of Babylon, drunk with the blood of saints,
Crowned in pearls and purple deceit,
Sat astride the beast with many heads—
And her laughter was a chalice of blasphemy.
Yet amidst the storm, the Bride was hidden.
She was not clothed in pride nor title.
No building bore her name. No nation claimed her.
But she was known by the Lamb alone.
Her garments were the righteousness of saints,
Washed white in the blood of God.
She bore His Spirit, not a form.
She loved not her life unto death,
And the oil in her lamp burned steady.
These are they who came through tribulation’s gate,
Whose robes were not stained by the harlot’s wine.
They kept His word and loved His appearing—
And they shall reign with Him forever.
Then silence was shattered by a cry:
“He cometh! He cometh with ten thousands!”
And behold—a white horse, and Him who sat upon it,
Faithful and True, with crowns upon His brow.
We followed, clad in garments of righteousness,
Not bearing sword, but bearing praise.
The armies of Heaven marched not in wrath,
But in worship of the King of Kings.
His robe was dipped in blood not spilled in battle,
But in Gethsemane.
From His mouth went the Word—a sword of flame.
And the beast was cast into the fire,
And the false prophet with him.
Then an angel, great and terrible,
Bound the serpent—old as Eden,
That ancient whisperer of dust.
They cast him into the abyss,
Where light forgets and mercy is silent.
O Lucifer, son of morning—
How art thou fallen!
Thou who didst traffic in pride and promises,
Art now the feast of fire and despair.
The nations who loved thee shall weep not for thee.
The earth shall open no tomb, nor Heaven a door.
Thou art become a hiss upon the lips of children.
Then I saw the old heaven depart,
And a new earth rise like a bride.
The curse was slain, and time itself laid down.
The tree of life bore fruit in twelve seasons.
And the leaves healed every wound of war.
The lion lay down with the lamb,
And the child danced in the shadow of the serpent.
There was no temple—for the Lord is our dwelling.
There was no sorrow—for the Lamb is our song.
And I, once a watcher, bent and gray—
Now ran with laughter through the fields of joy.
No outer gate remained, no threshold barred.
Only the open gate of the Everlasting.
O reader, soul, and seeker—
This is not the future.
This is the trumpet trembling now.
The fig tree buds. The hour bleeds.
And the Bridegroom tarrieth no longer.
Awake, O sleeper. Trim thy lamp.
For the cry hath gone out.
“Behold, the Bridegroom cometh!
Go ye out to meet Him!”
Amen. Even so, come, Lord Jesus.
Written by Marguerite Grace
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verse, possies, sonnets, and short stories 