The Unveiling

Today's Poem Inspired by Revelation 1:1-2

In the hush before the dawn of ages ends,  

a scroll unrolls in silence, not of human hand,  

but given from the throne where light itself begins,  

to the Son who bears the name no tongue can fully stand.  

The revelation comes, a river poured from height,  

not trickling rumor, not a whisper in the wind,  

but flood of certainty that drowns the veil of night,  

and shows the servants what must shortly come to end.

God gives to Christ, and Christ in turn bestows  

through angel wings that shimmer like the morning star,  

to John, the exile bound on Patmos' rugged shore,  

where waves repeat the ancient sigh of sea and bar.  

He sees, he writes, he testifies with trembling pen,  

the word of God unbroken, sharp as any blade,  

the testimony of the faithful Witness, then  

the risen One whose scars still speak though wounds have faded.

No dreamer's fancy, no philosopher's design,  

this is the opening of eyes long blind with fear,  

the lifting of the curtain on the grand design  

where every shadowed throne will bow and disappear.  

What must soon take place is not a threat to dread,  

but promise wrapped in judgment, mercy intertwined,  

the Lamb who conquers, though his robe with blood is red,  

the Alpha standing where the Omega is signed.

John, once a fisherman who walked by Galilee,  

now servant called to bear what heaven has unsealed,  

receives the vision not for private ecstasy  

but for the churches scattered, wounded, yet not healed.  

He testifies to everything his gaze has known—  

the blazing eyes that search the secrets of the heart,  

the voice like waters rushing over polished stone,  

the feet like burnished bronze that tread the realms apart.

And we, who read these words across the centuries,  

stand in the same light that fell on Patmos' stone,  

hearing the echo of the same divine decrees  

that call the faithful forward, never quite alone.  

The revelation is no distant, sealed decree;  

it is the living Christ who walks among the lamps,  

who knows the weariness, the faltering loyalty,  

and still extends the hand that bears the nail-print stamps.

So let the morning find us listening once more  

to what the Father gave, the Son made manifest,  

the angel carried, John proclaimed on heaven's shore—  

the testimony rising, though the world protest.  

For in this unveiling every fear dissolves,  

every illusion crumbles into dust and light,  

and what must soon take place no longer revolves  

around our fragile hopes, but centers on his might.

The scroll is open. The witness stands. The word is true.  

The One who was, and is, and is to come draws near.  

Through every trial, through every darkening view,  

the revelation shines: behold your Lord is here.