A Poem Inspired by John 1:6-8
Before the morning crowned the hills with fire,
Before the sun broke open heaven’s seam,
There moved a man clothed not in kingly attire,
But bearing in his soul a burning dream.
Not born for throne, nor scepter, nor acclaim,
Nor garland bright from any mortal hand;
Yet heaven itself had whispered him by name
And set his feet upon the desert sand.
The winds were first to hear his solemn cry,
For wilderness and silence knew him well;
Where rugged stones beneath the open sky
Were witness to the truth he came to tell.
No palace gates swung wide before his tread,
No choir proclaimed his coming through the land;
Yet hearts would stir wherever he had led,
As though some greater dawn was close at hand.
He walked where dust and prophecy entwined,
Where ancient hopes lay buried in the ground;
And every word that trembled on his mind
Was like a trumpet with a solemn sound.
Not for himself he lifted up his voice,
Nor sought he glory in the path he trod;
He spoke that wandering souls might yet rejoice
And turn their weary eyes again to God.
A witness only—such his humble claim,
A lantern held before a coming flame.
For he had seen, though dimly from afar,
The rising of a brighter, holier star.
And though its brilliance had not yet appeared,
Its promise stirred the depths of all he feared.
He knew the Light was greater than his word,
More vast than any vision he could frame;
The truth he bore was not his own, but heard
Like thunder softly speaking through his name.
Not he the dawn that wakes the sleeping earth,
Nor he the sun that floods the sky with gold;
But one who told of an approaching birth
Of radiance greater than the seers foretold.
And many came to listen where he stood,
By riverbanks where restless waters ran;
Their troubled hearts half-knowing, half-understood
The ancient longing written deep in man.
They felt the stirring of a hidden spark,
A rumor that the night would not remain;
That somewhere just beyond the heavy dark
A light would rise to break the age of pain.
Yet still he spoke with measured, careful breath,
Lest any think the glory was his own;
For he was but a herald unto death
Of shadows that the coming light would shone.
He pointed past himself with steady hand,
Like one who stands before a distant shore,
And bids the travelers of a restless land
Prepare to see what none had seen before.
O strange and solemn calling of the soul
To bear a truth yet not the truth to be;
To play the part that makes another whole,
And step aside so all the world may see.
Such was the path the lonely witness trod—
A voice that echoed through the silent years,
A servant sent with nothing but his God,
And faith to stand before a world of fears.
And though the desert swallowed up his cry,
And winds erased the footprints where he passed,
The light he heralded drew ever nigh,
And darkness knew its dominion could not last.
For every word he spoke became a seed
That waited for the sunrise yet to come,
And in the hearts of those who felt their need
It stirred a hope no night could overcome.
Thus history remembers not his crown
But something rarer, shining through the years:
A man who laid all lesser glories down
To bear a truth that banished ancient fears.
Not light himself—but faithful to proclaim
The rising glory none could yet contain,
A witness standing like a watchful flame
Until the sun broke forth across the plain.
And when at last the morning split the sky
And poured its brilliance over hill and sea,
The humble voice had taught the world to cry
For light—and thus prepared what was to be.
For hearts awakened by that desert call
Were ready when the greater dawn appeared,
And in that light they saw the end of all
The shadows humankind had long revered.
So stands the witness in the sacred page,
A lantern lit beside eternity—
A quiet herald of the turning age,
A servant sent that all might come to see.
Not he the light that filled the world with grace,
Yet faithful in the purpose heaven gave:
To point the weary human heart and face
Toward dawn beyond the darkness of the grave.
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