Do not suppose I came with torch to burn
the ancient scrolls, to scatter ash where once
the finger of the Lord inscribed its claim
upon the stone, upon the heart of man.
I did not walk these hills of Galilee
to tear the Law from its eternal throne
or hush the prophets' long-resounding cry
that rolled through centuries like thunder's drum.
No, I have come to fill what waited empty,
to crown the promise hidden in the letter,
to breathe the final breath that makes it live.
Think not the code of Sinai stands opposed
to mercy's tide or grace's quiet dawn;
its every precept, sharp as altar's edge,
was always pointing toward this very hour.
The commandments stood like sentinels at dawn,
guarding the path until the King should come;
the prophets sang in riddles and in fire
of One who bears the weight of every word.
I am no stranger breaking through the gate—
I am the gate itself, the road, the end,
the substance shadowed in the sacrifice.
For truly, heaven's vault and earth's broad frame
may fold like parchment in the final wind,
the stars grow dim, the mountains bow their heads,
yet not one smallest curve of sacred script,
not one fine hook that holds the Hebrew line,
not jot nor tittle trembling on the page,
shall slip away before the purpose wakes
and every stroke has found its answering deed.
The Law remains, not chained to human failing,
but lifted higher in the hands that shaped it,
accomplished now where once it only spoke.
See how the shadows lengthen into light:
the Passover lamb slain upon the wood
beholds its meaning in the broken bread;
the scapegoat driven to the wilderness
meets its fulfillment in the sinless one
who carries guilt beyond the city's wall.
The altars smoke no more with beastly blood—
their smoke ascends in praises from the cross,
where every requirement, every demand,
meets its completion in the willing Son.
The Law is not abolished, but transfigured;
its righteous heart beats now in living flesh.
Until the age dissolves and time is gathered
into eternity's unbroken now,
the word abides—unshaken, undiminished—
a faithful witness through the shaking earth.
Not one commandment falls to disuse,
not one prophetic vision fades to mist;
they stand fulfilled, yet ever new, in me,
the Alpha and Omega of the Law,
who came not to erase but to embody,
not to destroy but to make all things whole.
So let the hearer tremble, then rejoice:
the smallest letter shines with heaven's weight,
the least command burns brighter than the sun,
for in my life the whole of Scripture sings,
and every promise finds its certain yes.
Heaven and earth may pass; the word will not—
it lives in me, and I in those who hear,
eternal, perfect, righteous, ever true.
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