A Poem Inspired by Revelation 1:4-6
By Russ Hjelm
Grace to you, and peace,
from the One who stands before time
as a mountain stands before wind,
unchanging while ages pass like mist,
the One who is,
who was,
who is arriving even now
through the trembling doors of history.
Morning rises and falls,
empires gather and scatter,
names carved in stone soften into dust,
yet the Eternal remains,
breathing over the turning world,
holding the fragile thread of every hour,
calling creation forward
with a voice older than light.
Before the throne burns fullness,
sevenfold fire,
Spirit moving like breath through unseen chambers,
resting nowhere and everywhere,
awakening songs that have not yet been sung,
carrying prayers beyond the reach of language,
gathering the scattered fragments
of longing and hope.
And there is the Faithful Witness,
walking among shadows
without becoming shadow,
speaking truth that does not bend
when kingdoms threaten or crowds turn away.
His words are not swords of conquest,
but seeds buried deep,
waiting through dark soil
for resurrection.
He is the Firstborn of the silent grave,
the one who stepped through death
as through a doorway left open,
returning with morning in His hands.
Stone rolled away,
fear unfastened,
the long night broken
by footsteps that cannot be buried again.
Kings rise with banners,
crowns glinting beneath fragile suns,
yet above them all
is the quiet reign of the Lamb,
a throne not built on fear
but on mercy that endures.
Power redefined,
victory rewritten,
authority kneeling to wash weary feet.
He loves—
not as memory,
not as distant legend,
but as living fire
that moves toward the wounded.
Love that does not hesitate
at the sight of failure,
love that enters the locked rooms
where shame believes it is safe.
By blood He frees,
not with force
but with surrender deeper than oceans.
Chains fall softly,
almost unnoticed at first,
until the soul remembers
what it is to stand upright,
to breathe without fear,
to walk without hiding.
From broken people
He shapes a kingdom,
not walls or borders,
but hearts turned outward,
voices lifted together.
A priesthood born from mercy,
hands open instead of clenched,
lives offered like incense
rising into unseen light.
They carry sacredness into ordinary streets,
into markets and kitchens,
into fields and crowded rooms,
bearing quiet altars within them.
They bless without being asked,
forgive without applause,
serve without needing a throne,
reflecting a glory not their own.
To Him belongs the radiance
that no darkness can swallow,
the dominion that does not fade
when stars grow dim.
A song stretches beyond centuries,
echoing through every generation,
a river of praise
flowing toward eternity.
Forever and ever,
the refrain continues,
not tiring, not ending,
because love has no final note.
Creation leans toward that music,
history bends toward that light,
and every dawn whispers again:
grace and peace,
grace and peace,
from the One who holds all things together.
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