A Poem Inspired by Job 1:6-7
In the hush before the turning of the day,
when light had not yet climbed the eastern wall of heaven,
the courts of eternity opened like a vast sea of glass.
No wind stirred there.
No shadow dared to move without permission.
They came.
Sons of the morning, bearers of ancient light,
wanderers of constellations, keepers of forgotten fire,
gathered as they had since the first dawn was spoken.
They stepped through the corridors of heaven
like sparks returning to the flame that made them.
Each carried stories.
One had walked the rings of distant worlds
where blue storms slept beneath silver clouds.
Another had watched newborn suns
tear their way from the dark womb of dust.
Another still had listened to the quiet prayers
of creatures too small to be named.
And they stood.
Before the throne that does not tremble.
Before the voice that once said
Let there be.
Silence gathered like snowfall.
For even the stars,
those ancient singers of the deep,
hold their breath when eternity listens.
Then another came.
Not late,
not early,
but with the quiet certainty of one
who knows every door is already open.
He came from the long road of dust.
From deserts where the wind writes its name
and erases it again.
From cities swollen with noise and ambition.
From valleys where sorrow grows
like thorn bushes after rain.
He came from walking.
Walking where men build kingdoms of clay
and call them forever.
Walking where laughter and grief
share the same small room.
Walking where the fragile heart of humanity
beats stubbornly against the dark.
His feet carried the dust of empires.
His eyes carried the reflection
of wars not yet remembered
and children not yet born.
And still the court did not stir.
For the throne needed no defense
and truth had never feared a question.
Then the voice moved.
Not like thunder.
Not like storm.
But like gravity itself,
the quiet law that holds galaxies together.
Where have you come from?
The question rolled outward
through the architecture of heaven,
through pillars of light
and rivers of burning crystal.
And the traveler answered
as one who knows the road well.
From walking.
Walking the wide skin of the earth.
From wandering the fragile theater of men.
From tracing the footsteps of kings
and the footprints of beggars.
Back and forth.
Across fields where blood once cried from the ground.
Across markets where silver and promises changed hands.
Across lonely hills where shepherds counted stars
because no one else was watching.
Back and forth.
Across the restless continents of human hope.
Across the dim corners where envy whispers
and the bright doorways where kindness waits
without knowing it is being watched.
For the earth is a long road.
And the road tells many stories.
It tells of towers raised like prayers
that forgot whom they were meant for.
Of cities built on the bones of yesterday
and crowned with the arrogance of tomorrow.
It tells of quiet houses
where mothers sing softly to sleeping children
as though lullabies could hold the world together.
It tells of old men who look at the sky
as if remembering a language
their souls once spoke.
Back and forth.
Through vineyards and battlefields.
Through temples and taverns.
Through laughter that rises like morning birds
and grief that sinks like stones in deep water.
The traveler had seen them all.
Yet heaven did not tremble.
For the One who asked the question
had already written the ending
of every road that ever was.
The stars leaned closer.
The sons of the morning watched
with the curiosity of fire.
For somewhere on that wandering earth
a man sat in quiet faith,
unaware that his name
was already echoing through eternity.
And beyond the shining court,
beyond the edge of time itself,
the universe waited.
Because sometimes the smallest life
becomes the battlefield of heaven.
And sometimes the quietest faith
shakes the pillars of the unseen world.
So the court remained still.
The question hung like a lantern
in the endless sky.
Where have you come from?
And the dust of the earth
still clung to the answer.
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