A Poem Inspired by Job 1:8
There was a morning older than memory
when light had not yet decided where to fall,
when silence stood like a mountain
and eternity breathed slowly.
In that high and unseen court
where stars themselves seem small,
the voice that shaped the oceans
spoke a quiet question into the vastness:
Have you considered my servant?
Not a king crowned with thunder,
not a warrior with iron in his hands,
not a prophet wrapped in fire—
but a man of dust and breath.
A man who woke with the sunrise
and bowed before the unseen.
A man whose prayers rose like smoke
through the quiet rooms of heaven.
His name was Job.
The earth knew his footsteps well.
Fields bent under the weight of harvest,
flocks wandered safely beneath his watch,
and children laughed beneath his roof.
Yet these were not the things
that caught heaven’s attention.
Not the wealth that filled his barns,
nor the respect that followed his voice.
But the shape of his heart.
For there are many who stand tall before men
yet crumble in the secret chambers of the soul.
There are many who speak of righteousness
while bargaining quietly with shadows.
But Job walked differently.
His path curved away from evil
like a river avoiding poison.
His thoughts bowed low before God
like wheat bending in the wind.
He feared the Lord.
Not the fear of trembling chains
nor the fear of thunder in the sky,
but the reverent fear of a soul
standing before infinite holiness.
The kind of fear that guards the doorway of the heart.
The kind that whispers, Choose the narrow road.
The kind that remembers
that every breath is borrowed.
The heavens watched him.
Morning after morning
he lifted his voice for his children,
offering prayers like small lamps
against the darkness of the world.
Perhaps they have wandered, he would say.
Perhaps their hearts have stumbled unseen.
And so he prayed.
For love is careful.
Love is watchful.
Love kneels even when no one is looking.
And in the halls beyond time
the Creator spoke again.
Have you considered my servant Job?
For there is none like him on the earth—
blameless and upright,
a man who fears God
and turns away from evil.
Not perfect.
No clay man ever is.
But faithful.
Faithful like a lighthouse
that burns through storms.
Faithful like roots
that hold the mountain together.
And the universe listened.
Because the greatness of heaven
is not always written in fire.
Sometimes it is written quietly
in the life of a single man
who chooses what is right
when no trumpet sounds
and no crowd applauds.
A man who closes his eyes at night
with a clear conscience.
A man who wakes in the morning
and walks again with God.
The world is loud with power,
loud with ambition,
loud with the restless hunger
of those chasing crowns made of dust.
But heaven notices something else.
Heaven notices the upright.
The ones who resist the crooked path.
The ones who whisper prayers in empty rooms.
The ones who fear God more
than they fear the loss of everything.
For kingdoms rise and crumble.
Cities turn to sand.
Even mountains surrender
to the patience of time.
But the life of the faithful
echoes in eternity.
And somewhere beyond sight
the ancient question still travels
through the halls of heaven:
Have you considered my servant?
Perhaps even now
the Creator searches the earth
not for greatness that dazzles the eyes
but for hearts that walk straight in the dark.
For men and women
who fear Him quietly,
who turn from evil deliberately,
who choose righteousness
when it costs them everything.
People like Job.
Dust and breath,
yet shining.
Fragile and mortal,
yet steadfast.
A small life
in a vast universe—
yet known by name
in heaven.
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