A Poem Inspired by Revelation 1:3
In the hush before the seals are split
and the scroll unrolls its thunder,
a voice from Patmos rises soft yet sure,
pronouncing blessing like morning dew
upon the reader who lifts the words aloud,
upon the hearers gathered in shadowed rooms
where lamps flicker against encroaching night.
Blessed is the one who reads,
not in silence of the scholar's chamber
but with tongue that tastes the prophecy's edge,
voice trembling as it carries heaven's decree
through air thick with exile and empire's weight.
The syllables fall like stones into still water,
rippling outward to touch the listening souls,
each phrase a spark against the dark.
Blessed are those who hear,
ears attuned beyond the clamor of markets
and the decrees of distant thrones,
catching the cadence of what must shortly come—
not as distant rumor but as breath upon the neck,
the nearness pressing close, insistent, alive.
They lean forward in the assembly,
hearts open like palms receiving rain,
absorbing the visions of thrones and elders,
of slain Lamb and roaring Lion,
of stars cast down and waters turned to blood.
And more—blessed are they who keep,
who guard within the chest's deep vault
these things inscribed in apocalyptic ink,
not as curiosities shelved in memory's attic
but as commands etched upon the will,
lived out in fidelity amid the storm.
To keep is to walk the narrow path
while beasts prowl the edges of the age,
to hold fast the testimony of Jesus
when compromise whispers sweetly,
to wash robes in the blood that cleanses
and stand as witnesses when silence tempts.
For the time is near—
not a vague horizon blurred by centuries,
but kairos bending toward consummation,
the curtain thinning between what is
and what shall be when the Alpha speaks again.
Near as the pulse in the wrist,
as the footfall of the returning King,
as the first crack of dawn piercing Patmos' cave.
The word engys hangs like incense,
reminding that history is no endless circle
but an arrow loosed toward the throne,
carrying judgment for the proud,
vindication for the faithful,
and the marriage supper for the bride.
So let the reader proclaim with holy daring,
let the hearers incline with reverent hunger,
let the keepers rise in quiet resolve,
for in this triad of engagement—
reading, hearing, heeding—
the blessing descends like oil upon the head,
anointing for endurance,
for worship, for warfare in the Spirit.
The prophecy is no sealed tomb
but a living oracle, breathing still,
its promises pulsing through the church's veins
across the epochs, unbroken.
In every generation the time draws near anew,
calling forth the same response:
to open mouth and ear and heart
to the unveiling that began in blood
and ends in glory uncontained.
Thus blessed are we who stand
at the threshold of the book,
invited not to speculation's maze
but to participation in the mystery—
to read aloud until the voice grows hoarse,
to hear until the soul is shaken,
to keep until the dawn breaks full
and every eye beholds the One
who makes all things new.
The time is near.
The blessing waits upon the act.
Come, then, and take it in.
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