A Poem Inspired by Job 1:9-11
In chambers where no mortal foot may tread,
Where time moves slow as incense in the air,
The silent hosts in reverent order stand
Before the throne that kindled every star.
No storm has voice there, yet all thunder waits;
No shadow breathes unless the Light permits.
From wandering roads of dust and mortal breath
A restless spirit came among the sons—
His cloak was stitched with rumors of the world,
With sighs of kings and laughter from the poor,
With footprints fading on a thousand paths
Where hearts are weighed and destinies are tried.
The Sovereign spoke with calm untroubled tone,
As one who knows the marrow of all things:
“Hast thou considered him who walks in dust,
My servant formed of clay yet firm in heart?
No crooked bargain stains the path he walks;
He fears the Source from which all rivers run.”
The Accuser’s smile was thin as winter frost.
His voice, a blade that glimmered in the dusk,
Returned in answer, slow and edged with doubt:
“Does virtue bloom where blessings never fall?
Or does the righteous root in richer soil
Where walls of favor guard the tender seed?
You crown his days with quiet harvest light.
His barns are full, his children laugh at dawn.
Your hedge surrounds him like a golden field
Where wolves grow weary pacing at the rim.
Remove the shelter of Your unseen hand—
And see what truth lies hidden in his bones.
Touch all he owns; let fortune’s pillars break.
Let sudden winds erase his careful peace.
The mouth that sings beneath a cloudless sky
May curse the heavens when the storms descend.
Strip him of ease and watch his reverence fade,
For praise is cheap when sorrow keeps away.”
A hush fell deep as oceans yet unborn.
The courts of heaven waited in that pause,
As though the breath of worlds hung trembling there
Between the promise and the proving hour.
For faith, when wrapped in silk of tranquil days,
Is seldom known for what it truly is.
Yet somewhere far below those vaulted halls
A man walked slowly through his ordinary dawn.
He knew the dust, the warmth of rising bread,
The quiet strength of prayer beside his door.
No whisper from the council reached his ear,
No rumor of the wager in the skies.
He blessed the One who gives the breath of life,
Unknowing of the storm that watched his gate.
For hearts are tested not in heaven’s speech
But in the breaking of the mortal day—
Where loss arrives like winter in the fields
And faith must burn without the oil of ease.
O hidden drama written over earth,
Where heaven’s question walks in human flesh:
Is love for God a coin of borrowed joy,
Or flame that lives when every lamp goes dark?
The answer waits in dust and wounded trust,
Where fragile voices choose what they will praise.
For there are souls whose roots descend so deep
That drought itself becomes their testimony.
And though the wind may strip the orchard bare,
The stubborn seed remembers why it grew.
Thus in the silence of that ancient court
The challenge hung like thunder yet to break—
A question cast across the breadth of time,
Still echoing through every suffering heart:
When comfort dies and every gift is gone,
Will love remain… or turn its face away?
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