📘 Now Available on Amazon
The Hen Who Heard Thunder
A Prophetic Parable for the Last Days
📘 Now Available on Amazon
A Prophetic Parable for the Last Days
The Hen Who Heard Thunder
There are moments in history when comfort grows louder than truth—and only the watchful are willing to listen.
I’m honored to share that The Hen Who Heard Thunder is now available on Amazon. This reverent, Scripture-anchored parable is written for readers who sense the seriousness of the times we are living in and are seeking discernment rooted in God’s Word rather than speculation.
Grounded entirely in the King James Version of the Bible, this book does not predict dates or chase headlines. Instead, it reflects what Scripture has already spoken—calling readers to watchfulness, endurance, and faithfulness in the midst of uncertainty.
“He that hath an ear, let him hear.” — Revelation 2:7 (KJV)
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The Hen Who Heard Thunder: A Prophetic Parable for the Last Days
In a peaceful kingdom filled with comfort, progress, and confident assurances, one quiet voice refuses to ignore a warning that others no longer wish to hear.
The Hen Who Heard Thunder: A Prophetic Parable for the Last Days is an adult allegorical narrative grounded entirely in the Holy Scriptures and written using only the King James Version (KJV) of the Bible. Through the imagined setting of the Cloverleaf Kingdom and its animal inhabitants, this story explores the biblical warnings of the last days, the human tendency toward denial, the cost of watchfulness, and the hope promised by God to those who endure.
As leaders proclaim stability and peace, a watchful hen senses an approaching storm foretold long ago in Scripture. While others dismiss the warnings as unnecessary or inconvenient, she prepares – not in fear, but in obedience. Her preparation becomes a quiet testimony as deception increases, pressure grows, and the signs described in the Bible begin to unfold. What was once mocked slowly becomes undeniable.
This book does not speculate, assign dates, or identify modern nations. Instead, it faithfully echoes what Scripture itself declares about the last days: The rise of deception, the cooling of love, the testing of faith, the call to endurance, and the promise of restoration. Every warning and every hope presented in the story points back to what God and Jesus Christ have already revealed in His Word.
Written for adults seeking biblical clarity without sensationalism, The Hen Who Heard Thunder serves as both a teaching parable and a reflective narrative. It invites readers to watch to remain faithful, and to place their hope not in earthly systems, but in the unshakable Kingdom of God.
This story affirms the Bible as the inspired and authoritative Word of God and encourages readers to return to Scripture itself as the final source of truth, comfort, and hope in uncertain times.
January Snow
January’s snow came not in whispered tread, But fell with sovereign weight on West Virginia’s crown,
Till mountains bowed and every forest fell to hush, As though the earth itself had drawn one breath And dared not loose it.
There, amid the shaping of a fragile man of snow, The wood did stir, and forth came Sacsquash—
No heralded thunder, nor shape the heart should fear.
But calm made flesh and kindly set,
As steady as the hills that knew him first.
We labored side by side in wordless mirth, While heaven’s white kept falling all around.
Though winter ruled the hour, warmth yet remained.
And when he turned again to shadowed trees,
The cold stayed on—
Yet in that January hour, He left me sunshine.
Love,
Marguerite Grace,
Written by Marguerite Grace
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✨ A Triumph Kept in the Unseen ✨
✨ A Triumph Kept in the Unseen ✨
🔥 A song born in fire, guarded by Heaven, and sung in defiant joy.
🕊️ Victory doesn’t always shout—but it always stands.
🎶 Lyrics by Marguerite Grace
💻 read more at write-with-grace.com
🙌🔥🕊️✨👑
#ATriumphKeptInTheUnseen #MargueriteGrace #WriteWithGrace
#FaithThatStands #DefiantJoy #HeavenGuards
#ChristianMusic #GospelRock #VictoryInChrist
#RefinedNotRuined #PraiseThroughFire
A Triumph Kept in the Unseen
A Triumph Kept in the Unseen
Ere morn had learned to number out the days,
Ere dust had found its burden or its breath,
A charge was sworn beyond the reach of time:
That triumph walks with those who will not yield.
Not trumpet-born, nor raised by mortal boast,
But carried softly on unwearied wings,
A victory unseen by hasty eyes
Keeps faithful watch where sorrow plants its roots.
Its pinions bear the memory of flame,
Each plume a witness sworn in silent fire;
For victory is not the child of ease,
But heir to those made steadfast under weight.
Now mark the hour when trials have run their course,
When iron nights have pressed the faithful soul:
The onlookers draw near with searching gaze,
Their breath held fast, their tongues undone by awe.
They stare as those who thought the flame would win,
Who counted loss before the dawn returned;
Yet lo—there stands one schooled by hidden glory,
Unbowed in spine, unfractured in the light.
Persuaded not by pride, nor praise of men,
But by the hush of Heaven’s inward call,
I stand—no longer bent by borrowed fear,
My posture taught by covenant, not flesh.
Astonishment clothes every watching eye:
For scars still speak, yet rule no longer reigns;
The weight that should have crushed instead refined,
And suffering has lent me borrowed gold.
For as the silver sings beneath the fire,
And emeralds are born of ancient press,
As diamonds learn their strength by patient force,
So souls are shaped by trials deeply borne.
It hath been writ that fire shall test each work,
That faith, once tried, shines purer than before;
That sorrow, rightly borne, begets a crown,
And grief refines what glory shall reveal.
Thus persecution proves not God’s retreat,
But marks the kiln wherein His work is sealed;
No blade strikes true against the guarded heart,
No night prevails where watchful wings abide.
I have been pressed. I have been proved by flame.
I have been weighed by voices false and sharp.
Yet here I stand—astonishing the crowd—
Refined, not ruined; tempered, not undone.
I will not dim the light entrusted me,
Nor trade my radiance for gentler days.
I will not veil the shine that trials earned,
For darkness learns its limits at my glow.
I shine because the Keeper does not sleep.
I stand because His promise does not bend.
Protection is not chance nor fragile hope—
It is decree, unbroken, sure, and sworn.
The wings remain. The watch is firmly kept.
The triumph stands, though silence be its tongue.
And through all ages this one truth endures:
What God refines, He surely also guards.
I am protected. I am purified.
I am persuaded by eternal light.
Blessed be the Name that sealed my days in truth—
Blessed be the Name of Jesus, now and aye.
Written by Marguerite Grace
Copyright Protected
Manna Falling from God’s Own Hands ✨🍞🌿
Manna Falling from God’s Own Hands ✨🍞🌿
A song of mercy given, grace unearned, and love poured out daily from heaven above. May this remind every heart that God provides—faithfully, gently, perfectly. 🤍👑🕊️
Listen. Receive. Rest.
✨ Lyrics by Marguerite Grace
🌸 Worship • Hope • Promise
🌿 write-with-grace.com
#MannaFromHeaven #GodsProvision #LivingBread #WorshipSong #FaithMusic #GraceUponGrace #HeavenlyHope #WriteWithGrace
Bread Falling Like Light
Bread Falling Like Light
Prologue — The Longing
Before the morning learned how to glow,
before voices learned how to pray,
the heart of humankind waited—
not in fear,
but in hope—
for the kindness of God to arrive.
And the Lord, whose mercy never sleeps,
saw that waiting.
He remembered His children,
walking far from home,
their spirits yearning for what only heaven could give.
And He chose not to send riches,
nor thunder,
but food made of love.
“Behold, I will rain bread from heaven for you.”
—Exodus 16:4
When Heaven Opens Its Hands
Morning comes quietly.
A hush rests upon the land,
like a blessing held in breath.
When the mist lifts,
the ground shines—
covered with something gentle,
fine as morning light,
pure as a promise kept.
They ask softly, What is this?
For no word yet exists
for a gift so tender.
It is bread shaped by God alone.
It is nourishment without burden.
It is kindness given daily.
“He gave them bread from heaven to eat.”
—Exodus 16:15
“Man did eat angels’ food.”
—Psalm 78:25
The Scripture does not say it fell by chance.
It says He gave.
As one might place food
into the hands of a beloved child.
Why the Bread Is Given
The bread falls because God delights in providing.
Because love does not withhold.
Because mercy longs to be received.
Each morning teaches trust.
Each portion whispers, I am near.
No more than needed—
no less than enough.
“That man doth not live by bread only,
but by every word that proceedeth
out of the mouth of the Lord.”
—Deuteronomy 8:3
The bread melts with the sun,
reminding the heart to gather grace
while it is offered.
Bread Still Given Today
The giving did not end in the wilderness.
For one day, heaven stepped closer still.
“I am the living bread
which came down from heaven.”
—John 6:51
Christ walked among us
like manna with a heartbeat—
speaking life,
breaking Himself gently
for the world.
And now the Holy Spirit moves—
quiet, faithful, sweet—
feeding the inner life
with peace, with truth, with joy.
“The Spirit giveth life.”
—2 Corinthians 3:6
“He that eateth of this bread shall live for ever.”
—John 6:58
Still He feeds.
Still He offers.
Still the bread is holy.
The Table and the Garden
A table appears, set with care.
Not rushed.
Not empty.
“Thou preparest a table before me.”
—Psalm 23:5
The cup is full.
The presence is near.
And beyond the table—
a garden, alive with peace.
God walks there.
And He invites.
Not as a ruler seeking tribute,
but as a Father welcoming company.
I pray—
let me walk with You there.
Let me serve You gladly.
Let my hands tend what You love.
“The Lord God planted a garden.”
—Genesis 2:8
“His servants shall serve Him.”
—Revelation 22:3
The Feast That Satisfies All
If all would taste, all would be filled.
If all would come, none would be turned away.
The manna still falls—
in word,
in Spirit,
in grace.
“Ho, every one that thirsteth, come.”
—Isaiah 55:1
“Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst
after righteousness.”
—Matthew 5:6
Angels rejoice.
Heaven listens.
The table remains open.
Glory
O God,
rain Your manna again—
from Your own hands,
with Your own love.
Feed us gently.
Lead us home.
Praise the Lord.
Hallelujah.
To God be the glory above all.
“Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty.”
—Revelation 4:8
Written by Marguerite Grace
Copyright Protected
In the House of Prayer — WWJD
In the House of Prayer — WWJD
The church sat where the paved road thinned into gravel, and the gravel thinned into patience, its white boards weathered by years of sun and prayer. The hand-painted sign out front read House of Prayer, because Jesus Himself had said, “My house shall be called the house of prayer,” and no one there believed it needed improvement. Inside, the pews bore the marks of long use, worn smooth where hands had rested through grief, joy, and waiting. The air carried wood, dust, and oil—the quiet scent of reverence practiced more than explained.
Elder Samuel Cobb stood behind the pulpit with his Bible already open, because a true disciple knows the Word must stand first.
The piano began softly, not performing but gathering the room, and the first hymn rose in uneven harmony as voices found one another. Singing was never rushed here, because worship was understood as agreement with God rather than display. Heads bowed, eyes closed, hands lifted or folded, and the name of the Lord Jesus Christ was spoken with familiarity and awe. Prayer followed the final chord, offered aloud and plainly, thanking Christ for His presence and asking for obedience before understanding. The room settled into attention rather than comfort, and that distinction mattered.
The doors opened hard in the middle of the second hymn, and sound entered before bodies—loud voices breaking against the stillness like sudden weather. A man shouted accusations without aim. A woman laughed sharply, as though contempt were armor. A poster scraped the doorframe, as if it had already been carried through other sanctuaries. Heads turned together, and confusion rippled through the congregation, because disruption always tests whether belief is practiced or only spoken.
A deacon whispered, “What do we do,” and another answered too quickly, “This shouldn’t be allowed,” because fear often disguises itself as concern. He that hath ears to hear, let him hear, because crowds were loud in Jesus’ time too.
Elder Cobb did not raise his voice or strike the pulpit, because Scripture had already taught him restraint. He remembered how people cried out while Jesus taught—how a blind man shouted over the crowd until Jesus stood still. He remembered children pulling at Christ while disciples tried to send them away, and how Jesus corrected the disciples instead, saying, “Suffer the little children to come unto me.”
These memories were not abstract to him; they were instruction.
He lifted one hand slightly, not as command but as presence, and the room quieted enough to breathe.
Four members near the center pews leaned together, Bibles already open, because confusion is answered with truth, not volume. One said quietly, “We need to remember what Jesus actually did,” and another replied, “WWJD—What Would Jesus Do—means we already have the answer in His Word.” They turned pages together and read aloud how Jesus answered hostile questions without anger when leaders tried to trap Him. They spoke clearly so others could hear.
A third read how Christ defended the woman who disrupted a meal when others wanted her silenced, reminding the group that brokenness is not an offense to God. The fourth said, “He that hath ears to hear, let him hear,” and the phrase settled into the room with weight.
They continued, reading how Jesus did not retaliate when mocked by soldiers and rulers. The room grew still enough to hear breathing. One turned pages again and read the moment Jesus overturned tables, explaining carefully that this was the only time force appeared, and that it was because worship itself had been blocked.
They spoke plainly about the difference between wounded people and hardened exploitation, and no one interrupted them, because the anointed Word of God for guidance—the Holy Bible—was doing the speaking.
Prayer rose again afterward, thanking God for clarity and asking for obedience, not victory. Singing returned softly, a hymn of surrender rather than certainty.
As they read, one member said, “The disciples were confused too,” and another read how Jesus walked with them on the road, opening Scripture patiently until understanding came. Heads nodded, because confusion felt familiar, especially in a world louder and faster than any generation before.
Someone whispered, “So we stay calm,” and another answered, “We stay obedient,” because the Word had already settled it.
They read aloud, “By their fruits ye shall know them,” and then, “Beloved, believe not every spirit, but try the spirits whether they are of God.” In an age of amplified voices and constant demands, discernment was no longer optional but commanded.
Elder Cobb stepped down from the pulpit and stood level with the disruptors, hands open, posture unthreatening, because Jesus never hid behind authority when souls were present. He listened without interruption, just as Christ listened to the Samaritan woman who came carrying history and questions.
When the man ran out of words, Cobb spoke calmly.
“If you’re angry, we won’t mock you, because Jesus did not mock those who mocked Him. If you’re wounded, we won’t rush you out, because Christ welcomed the broken.”
His voice firmed only when prayer was blocked.
“This is the House of Prayer,” he said, “and prayer will not be taken hostage.”
The boundary was clear, and the difference was understood.
A murmur moved through the congregation—not approval, but clarity. Someone whispered, “Try the spirits,” because Scripture commanded it. Another replied, “Watch the fruit,” remembering Jesus’ words, and they waited rather than reacted.
Elder Cobb prayed aloud for the disruptors and the church together, fulfilling supplications and intercessions for all men. He reminded the church gently that believers are held to the higher standard, and that the servant of the Lord must not strive, but be gentle unto all.
The Holy Spirit settled the room without spectacle.
The posture of the disruptors changed slowly—shoulders lowering, voices quieting—as if something had been disarmed without force. No one claimed authority over them, yet authority had been exercised through obedience to Christ. Respect replaced disrespect, not because demands were met, but because truth had been honored.
The church did not debate what to do next, because God’s Word had made it plain, and they had read it together. No matter what anyone else said or demanded, they now knew the truth, and knowing it bound them to act accordingly.
When the service ended, the House of Prayer remained what Jesus called it.
Love stayed.
Prayer remained.
The Lord Jesus Christ was honored.
And those who had ears heard.
And those who heard obeyed.
Written by Marguerite Grace
Copyright Protected
Percy: A Gospel of Staying
Percy: A Gospel of Staying
I did not know then that I was being taught how resurrection speaks.
It seemed good to me also, having had perfect understanding of all things from the very first, to write unto thee in order…
(Luke 1:3, KJV)
There was nothing hurried about the way Percy worked. Each day he returned to the stump and stayed there, shaping wood with a kind of attention that suggested time itself could be handled—turned, pressed, and left behind in solid form—if one was willing to move slowly enough.
And he came out, and went, as he was wont…
(Luke 22:39, KJV)
I called it widdling, and Percy laughed at the way I said it, then went on working, letting the word remain just as I had spoken it.
Percy was old when I knew him—around seventy-nine. That would have placed his birth somewhere near 1903 or 1904. I did not know that then. What I knew was the brightness of his white hair beneath the red cap he wore most days, tipped slightly to the side, as though he had learned long ago not to resist the lean of the world.
His hands were bent and knotted, fingers thick with swelling and stiff from severe arthritis. They looked like hands that had suffered. But Percy did not hide them. He worked with them openly and patiently, as though pain had never been given permission to lead.
Behold my hands and my feet, that it is I myself…
(Luke 24:39, KJV)
He wore white high-top tennis shoes that looked strange on him—too bright, too new, out of place on a man who remembered horse-and-buggy days. Percy did not seem concerned with matching expectations.
At his feet sat an old metal can. Every so often, Percy leaned to the side and spat Red Man chewing tobacco into it, the sound sharp and ordinary—like punctuation in a long, quiet sentence.
The yard around him was immaculate—not fussy, simply faithful. I never saw sticks lying about. Percy did not walk far; his back curved into a hump that made movement slow and measured. Yet every day there was wood. I never asked where it came from.
Give us day by day our daily bread.
(Luke 11:3, KJV)
One afternoon he told me he would make me something.
“A knife,” he said.
I did not know why a knife. I did not ask. I wanted whatever Percy chose to give.
And he took bread, and gave thanks, and brake it, and gave unto them…
(Luke 22:19, KJV)
After that, I went over every day. I watched the knife take shape slowly—the blade smoothed again and again, the handle rounded to fit my hand. Percy worked without hurry and without complaint. He talked while he worked—about the weather, about the white ducks drifting across the pond beyond the fence.
And it came to pass, as he sat at meat with them, he took bread, and blessed it, and brake, and gave to them.
(Luke 24:30, KJV)
We watched the honeybees together, moving low over the clover. We talked about how they never rushed, how they seemed to know where they were meant to go.
Consider the ravens: for they neither sow nor reap…
(Luke 12:24, KJV)
Sometimes, while the blade moved steadily through the grain, Percy spoke about Jesus.
Not loudly.
Not urgently.
He spoke as someone who had already placed his life there.
He said Christ knew what it was to labor without recognition, to suffer without spectacle, to love without any guarantee of return. He said Jesus did not save people by removing pain, but by standing inside it with them.
He said salvation was not escape.
It was presence.
Jesus himself drew near, and went with them. But their eyes were holden…
(Luke 24:15–16, KJV)
One evening after school, I walked over again. I had just eaten dinner and watched my favorite television show—the one that began with whistling, a father and son walking together, the boy skipping a stone across the water. The show always left me with the feeling that something important was being passed down, something quiet and steady.
And beginning at Moses and all the prophets, he expounded unto them…
(Luke 24:27, KJV)
Percy was already on the stump when I arrived. I sat beside him. It was big enough for both of us.
That evening, Percy began to talk about his wife.
“Her name was Marlene,” he said.
He told me how much he loved her. How he built the house they lived in together—small, but strong. He told me about the day they learned they were going to have a baby. A little girl.
I felt happy when he told me. I expected joy to follow.
Instead, Percy told me about winter. About deep snow that came too fast. About the doctor and the midwife who could not reach them. About the baby who lived only a few hours.
Then his wife passed too.
Percy did not rush the telling. He did not soften it. He did not ask for pity.
Blessed are ye that weep now: for ye shall laugh.
(Luke 6:21, KJV)
I went home that night carrying something heavy I did not yet know how to name.
I stayed away for a while.
Then one bright afternoon, I saw Percy again on the stump, alone, whittling as he always had. Something in me pulled hard toward him.
He wore his red cap. His jeans hung too loose. He looked the same—and older.
He asked if I had been busy.
We talked about the honeybees again.
Then he handed me the knife.
It was finished.
And their eyes were opened…
(Luke 24:31, KJV)
I hugged him.
The knife felt solid in my hand—balanced, intentional. It was not a toy. It was art. Art Percy had shaped with hands the world had tried to slow.
“You shouldn’t feel sad for me,” he said.
I was.
“I’m not alone,” he said. “Christ stayed.”
He pointed toward the old graveyard by the church.
“She’s there,” he said. “And my daughter. My daughter’s in her arms.”
He is not here, but is risen.
(Luke 24:6, KJV)
He spoke without fear—the way someone speaks who believes the grave does not get the final word.
Before I left, I asked him why he had made me a knife.
He smiled.
“It’s for remembering,” he said. “Wood remembers the hand that shaped it.”
Years later, I returned to that old graveyard.
Around the stone lay small carved wooden figures. Some might once have been dolls. Some might have been animals. Time and weather had taken their certainty. Flowers lay there too—roses pressed flat into the earth, their color gone but their stems still holding.
If these should hold their peace, the stones would immediately cry out.
(Luke 19:40, KJV)
I understood then that Percy had not been alone.
People had come.
People had stayed.
Hands had remembered him.
For the first time, the stone told the whole truth.
It named them.
His wife.
His daughter.
And beneath them—
Marguerite Grace.
The world did not move.
Then opened he their understanding…
(Luke 24:45, KJV)
Percy had never told me.
I stood very still, holding the weight of a name that had been written before I knew to look for it.
What I had been holding all those years—the knife, the memory, the teaching—had been shaped by a man who already knew my name.
Christ does not rush grief.
He does not erase loss.
He redeems it by remaining.
Fear not, little flock; for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.
(Luke 12:32, KJV)
And I know now that Percy is not alone.
He is with them.
With the wife he spoke of often, whose name rested gently on his tongue even years after her passing. With the daughter he loved before he ever held her. There is no winter between them now. No waiting. No separation of hands.
For he is not a God of the dead, but of the living: for all live unto him.
(Luke 20:38, KJV)
I believe Percy’s hands are no longer bent with pain. I believe they are strong and steady now, taken first by his wife, then by his daughter. I believe there is laughter where there was once only endurance.
Not loud laughter.
The kind that breathes.
Blessed are ye that weep now: for ye shall laugh.
(Luke 6:21, KJV)
I do not imagine Percy working anymore.
I imagine him resting—the way a craftsman rests when the work is finished and nothing more needs shaping.
To day shalt thou be with me in paradise.
(Luke 23:43, KJV)
I still have the knife.
It fits my hand.
And when I hold it, I remember Percy—
and the Christ who stayed with him,
and who, it turns out, had been holding me the whole time.
And nothing that stayed was lost.
And they worshipped him, and returned… with great joy… praising and blessing God. Amen.
(Luke 24:52–53, KJV)
Written by Marguerite Grace
Copyright Protected
verse, possies, sonnets, and short stories 