verse, possies, sonnets, and short stories

The Withered Branch and the Burning Flame

Think’st thou the seal once pressed upon thy soul
Constrains the Eternal Hand from just decree?
That Mercy, tasted, mortgages the Throne
And binds Omnipotence to lenity?
O vain arithmetic of carnal hope,
That reckon’st grace as coin once paid in full,
And wouldst make Heaven debtor to thy sleep.

Attend: for Truth is not a silken nurse
To rock the sluggard in presuming peace.
The Word is flint; it strikes, and sparks of fear
Leap living from the granite of the heart.

“To Ephesus,” saith He whose eyes are flame,
“Thou hast forsaken love’s first ardency.
Remember whence thou art declined; repent—
Else will I move thy lamp from out its place.”

Not unto pagans sounded this rebuke,
But unto those once bright with covenant light.
O dreadful intimacy of grace—
To stand within, yet tremble at removal.

What branch, once quickened by the parent Vine,
May boast continuance while severed clean?
He said not, Near Me—but, “In Me,” cut off;
A paradox of privilege undone:
To have been fed by sap of living Christ
And yet lie sere beneath judicial sun.

For none is lopped from where no graft was set,
Nor cast to flame who never bore the green.
The fire consumes inheritance betrayed,
Not barren heath untouched by husbandry.

And thou—be not high-minded, but in fear.
If ancient boughs, first-nurtured, spared were not,
What wild-olive, by mercy only set,
Shall mock the root and think himself secure?
Behold twin attributes in awful poise:
Goodness that grafts—severity that prunes.
Continue—or the axe remembers thee.

Consider those illumined once with dawn,
Who tasted gift and Spirit’s rushing wind,
And in that light discerned the Crucified—
Yet chose eclipse, and crucified again
The Lord of glory to their second shame.
O terrible irreversibility
Of light rejected with consenting will.

For falling argues altitude before;
One cannot plummet from a depthless void.
Apostasy is not of ignorance,
But altitude abused into abyss.

“He that endureth shall be saved.” Not he
Who blossomed briefly in the morning dew,
But he whose root strikes downward through the drought,
And holds though summer scorch and winter rend.

Salvation is no monument in time,
Cold marble dated at conversion’s hour;
It is a pulse, a respiration lived—
A flame that feeds on watchfulness and prayer.

Grace is no cloak to dignify revolt,
No charter signed for dalliance with sin.
It is a sword that severs flesh from will,
A fire that will not share the heart’s divided throne.

What covenant retains adulterous trust?
What soldier crowned who deserts mid-war?
What scholar claims the laurel of the wise
Who shuts his book and mocks the Master’s voice?
Continuation is the grammar of belief;
Perseverance, its syntax and its seal.

Examine, therefore—art thou yet in Him?
Abiding is the evidence of life.
Lamps, though once kindled, perish without oil;
Branches, though once in sap, grow dry through pride.

Return—while yet the Gardener walks the rows.
Repent—while still the candlestick may stand.
For He is constant in His offered grace,
Yet constant also in His holy fire.

Let none baptize presumption into creed
Nor preach immunity to trembling souls.
The path is narrow not at entrance only,
But narrow still where feet grow faint with years.

God is most faithful—this our anchor stands;
His promise sure, His mercy vast and strong.
Yet faithfulness He seeks in those He saves:
A faith obedient, vigilant, aflame.

Therefore walk softly in triumphant awe—
Not doubting Him, but doubting thine own strength.
For grace is power, not permission; life,
Not license for the old man’s lingering throne.

Abide. Endure. Repent when thou dost fall.
The crown is not for those who once began,
But those who, having begun, refuse to cease—
And stand at last because they stood in Him.

Written by Marguerite Grace
Copyright Protected 

The Letter Sealed in Crimson

Before the scarlet rose unclosed its bloom,
Before the vine first learned its reaching art,
Before the hidden earth released its scent
Warm to the hush of any lover’s breath—
My heart was set on thee.

“I have loved thee with an everlasting love;
Therefore with lovingkindness have I drawn thee.”
So was it spoken ere thy pulse began,
And thou wast known before thou knew’st My Name.

Thou dwelt as wintered orchard, branch unbloomed,
A bud drawn tight against imagined frost.
Thou saw’st the velvet rose in offered palm,
The sugared sweetness melting slow and dark,
The folded note bound fast with crimson thread,
The candle trembling in consenting dusk—
Yet still thy spirit lingered, half-afraid.

For thou didst fear the breaking of the seal.
What if the letter summoned all thy heart?
What if the sweetness vanished into ache?
What if the bloom once opened bruised by wind?

Beloved, I knew.

I waited, patient as unopened wine
Deep in the cask of centuries concealed;
As dark and rich as chocolate unbroke,
Holding within its velvet weight a flame—
Not fleeting sugar of a passing feast,
But bread and wine that quicken unto life.

For God so loved the world, that He gave
His only begotten Son,
That whosoever believeth in Him
Should not perish, but have everlasting life.

Love did not linger distant from thy need—
It gave; it came; it bore; it overcame.

First came Storge, soft as woven wool,
The hearth-light haloing thy cautious frame.
“My child,” it whispered through thy midnight doubt;
And sap long silent stirred beneath the bark.

Then Phileo, clear as morning air:
“I call thee friend,” it sounded in thy bones;
And laughter, long entombed, began to rise.

Then covenant flame, disciplined and deep:
“Set Me as seal upon thine heart;
For love is strong as death.”
Its warmth was holy—neither rash nor wild—
A crimson ribbon binding vow to vow.

Yet over all, and through all, Agape moved—
The ocean under every lesser tide.
While thou wert yet uncertain, I was sure.
While thou wert yet concealed, I saw thee whole.

“Greater love hath no man than this,
That a man lay down his life for his friends.”

So was My heart poured forth like richest wine;
The crimson fell more deep than any rose.
Upon the tree My love stood written plain;
The thorn and nail became love’s lexicon.
“It is finished,” breathed My wounded side.

The stone was moved; the morning split the dark;
“He is not here; for He is risen.”
The garden breathed with resurrection warmth;
The air itself grew golden with new life.

And I called thee.

As bridegroom calling through the orchard rows,
As shepherd calling through the lifting mist,
As lover whispering thy hidden name
Where pulse and promise meet.

O thou who feared the breaking of the seal,
Behold the letter written in My blood.
O thou who trembled at the melting sweet,
Taste and see that I am good.

Then came the yielding.

From bud to bloom;
From bloom to fragrance loosed upon the wind;
From guarded sweetness unto shared delight;
From solitary hush to answered vow.

“Perfect love casteth out fear.”

Beloved, thou art Mine.

Not as a token fading with the feast,
Nor as a rose pressed pale in passing years—
But as the vine abides within its root,
As wine abides within the living grape,
As pulse abides within the breathing breast.

Holy, holy, holy, Love most high,
Whose banner over me is love;
Holy, holy, holy, risen King,
Whose heart was pierced that mine might beat.

For before the rose, I loved thee.
Before the wine, I chose thee.
Before the dawn, I knew thee.

Rest now within the wound that made thee whole.

Written by Marguerite Grace
Copyright Protected 

https://suno.com/song/70733916-61a5-487e-b392-af50a098eec3

THE TESTIMONY OF THE WATCHER AND THE SNARE

Hear this, O people of the afterlight,

you who wake to glow and call it morning,

whose first breath tastes of signal

and whose last thought belongs to a screen.

Hear this, O nation trained to watch endlessly

and never taught to see.

“They have eyes, but they see not;

they have ears, but they hear not,”

said the psalmist,

and the line has followed every empire into ruin.

Before iron learned to sing in war,

before ink learned to flatter kings,

before numbers learned to lie and call it science,

a voice stood on hardened ground

and named what was coming.

“For the time will come,” wrote the apostle,

“when they will not endure sound doctrine;

but after their own desires

they shall heap to themselves teachers,

having itching ears;

and they shall turn away their ears from the truth,

and be turned unto fables.”

That time learned many names.

That voice still speaks.

The ground remembers footsteps

even when mouths forget truth.

The wind tastes sharp and metallic,

like bitten wire.

The air hums low, like warning machinery,

a sound so constant it becomes invisible.

You gather around light

that gives no warmth.

You bow to reflections,

metrics, mirrors, and numbers,

and call it sight.

A modern critic warned

that people would not need censorship

if they could be drowned in amusement.

Another warned that when facts collapse,

power no longer needs truth —

only repetition.

Your days are loud.

Your nights refuse rest.

Sleep flees from houses filled with noise.

Dreams dry up like wells fouled at the source.

Children learn the shape of enemies

before the shape of stars,

the sound of slogans

before the sound of wind.

Once, messengers ran with torn clothes

and bleeding feet.

Now messages run clothed in gold.

Once, prophets shattered kings with whispers.

Now whispers are buried under shouting.

Once, trumpets warned of danger.

Now danger markets itself as news.

“They cry, Peace, peace;

when there is no peace,”

said Jeremiah,

and the phrase has been profitable ever since.

They call bitter sweet,

and sweet bitter.

They dress fear in silk

and sell it as wisdom.

They carve lies thin,

slice them narrow,

repeat them gently,

until no one notices the blade.

“Death and life are in the power of the tongue,”

wrote the wise,

and the tongue learned to rent itself out

by the hour.

Words harden with use.

Say them long enough

and they pass for bread.

Stories sharpen themselves.

Names are stripped of faces.

People become categories.

Blood arrives later —

as it always does.

A survivor of total power warned

that when truth and falsehood blur,

people lose not only facts

but the ability to recognize reality itself.

Another warned that corrupted language

prepares the ground for cruelty

long before the first blow lands.

The city smells of overheated circuits and panic.

Its heartbeat stutters like a failing signal.

Truth limps through the streets,

dragging its name behind it,

ignored, mocked, or monetized.

Two colors shout across the square.

Both swear righteousness.

Both claim virtue.

Both spill the same blood.

The ground does not debate —

it opens.

“Every kingdom divided against itself

is brought to desolation,”

said the carpenter,

and centuries later a president repeated it,

watching it happen in real time.

They do not cry warning to save the house.

They strike flint behind the walls.

They pour accelerant,

then ask who lit the match.

They point to spreading chaos and say, Look there,

while igniting the next room.

“They sow the wind,” warned Hosea,

“and they shall reap the whirlwind.”

History has never found an exception.

“Be aware,” they say,

while counting the coins of your pulse.

They harvest anxiety like grain.

They monetize unrest

and call it care.

They profit from your fear

and label it protection.

A French observer warned

that tyranny in modern ages

would not arrive with chains and whips,

but with pressure —

soft, constant, inescapable —

until thinking itself feels unsafe.

They pull you close

and cut the string.

Outrage is crowned.

Mercy is exiled.

Silence is hunted.

“They received not the love of the truth,”

wrote the apostle,

“that they might be saved,”

and so confusion was allowed to rule,

not by force,

but by consent.

They instruct you whom to love,

whom to hate,

what words may pass your lips,

what thoughts must remain hidden.

A waking mind is named dangerous.

Freedom is treated like contraband.

So they keep the people weary.

So they keep the people furious.

They hand out sides like uniforms

and call it choice.

An architect of republics warned

that faction, once inflamed,

would tear nations apart

from the inside out.

A preacher warned that anger blinds.

A psychologist warned that shadows grow

when ignored.

The news tastes corroded and sour.

Sweet words coat poison.

Drama feeds the fire.

Rage is rewarded.

Fear becomes fuel.

“The eye is not satisfied with seeing,

nor the ear filled with hearing,”

said the preacher,

long before the feed learned your name

or memorized your pain.

The machine learns your wounds.

It presses them precisely.

It never tires.

Calm is useless —

it does not convert.

This is the pattern.

This is the snare.

An enemy is named.

A cure is sold.

The sickness is declared holy.

Control is baptized.

Dissent is diagnosed.

Brother is turned against brother.

This is called progress.

This is called fate.

“Woe unto them,” warned Isaiah,

“that call evil good, and good evil;

that put darkness for light,

and light for darkness.”

A writer of future nightmares warned

that power lives not in weapons,

but in controlling the meaning of words.

Another warned that indifference

always sides with the oppressor.

Stories kill before weapons speak.

Language bends pain

until war feels reasonable,

necessary,

even righteous.

“These things begin with words,”

the elders warned,

long before they ever reach the hands.

Now the soldiers wear no armor —

only screens.

The pressure is quiet,

but it never stops.

The loudest lie rises.

Nuance sinks.

Reflection drowns.

If you do not shout allegiance,

you are named the threat.

Trust erodes without sound.

Decay spreads beneath crowns painted gold.

Neighbors become strangers.

Empathy starves.

“There is a way that seemeth right unto a man,”

wrote the wise,

“but the end thereof are the ways of death.”

Fear feels safe.

Anger feels clean.

Truth feels distant.

“Be not deceived,” warned another voice,

“for whatsoever a man soweth,

that shall he also reap.”

This has happened before.

History keeps saying so.

It will happen again.

No one knows how it ends —

that ending does not trend.

The screen dims.

The glow remains.

The fight keeps selling.

Truth moves on.

And somewhere beneath signal and shine,

beneath noise and banners,

beneath language bent out of shape,

lies the cost.

Silence.

Make it make sense.

Written by Marguerite Grace

Copyright Protected

https://suno.com/song/d5a28d09-5dd7-48d2-a67c-9d412a78f629

(almost as if)

Almost as if the room had learned my name,
It leans its ear toward every breath I take.
The air grows thick, not close—deliberate,
As though it waits to see what I become.
I stand within the shape my hands devised,
Each stone a sentence sworn against the dark,
Each seam sealed tight with certainty and fear.

Come closer. Do not flinch at narrowing walls.
This is not loss of space, but gaining form.
I rose where chaos bruised thy tender mind,
Where voices clashed and mercy blurred the law.
I taught thee how to stand when none remained.
I did not shout. I whispered sense and strength.

Almost as if the weight were wisdom’s proof,
I take the surcoat from its waiting hook
And draw it round my shoulders like a vow.
How old it smells—of iron faith and smoke,
Of wars remembered holy after time.
It presses hard along my ribs and spine.
What presses hardest must be built to last.

I clothed thee thus when no one named thy worth.
No father laid his hand upon thy head
To say: This is the measure of a man.
So I became that measure. I became
The rule that does not leave. The line that holds.
Wrap close. The cloth remembers chosen men.

There is no mirror here. I spared thee that.
Mirrors divide the soul in smaller selves.
Conviction needs no witness but itself.
Yet still thy face grows firm, though thou canst not see—
The eyes grow keen with judging what must fall,
The mouth forgets the softness of reply.

Almost as if a pulse defies command,
A flicker glows behind thy guarded ribs.
A heart—how troublesome these embers are.
They warm at mercy, flare at human grief.
Press cloth against it. Fire must learn its place.
I let it glow at times, for contrast sharpens faith.

I pace the floor and speak to stillness now,
For silence has a habit of replying.
I tell myself I built for order’s sake,
That love untamed dissolves the bones of men,
That women speaking truths unguarded wound,
That strangers carry fear beneath their skin.

Almost as if I wondered how they think—
The thought arrives, unwelcome but sincere.
A woman’s eyes hold something like the sea.
A stranger’s grief hangs heavy in the air.
The moment stirs, then trembles on the edge.

I seal it quick with language shaped as law:
That difference corrodes what must endure,
That mercy breeds a weakness in the wall,
That some must rule so others may be ruled.
The thought retreats. The stone approves my calm.

Thou art not cruel. Thou art meticulous.
I taught thee so. I praised thee for restraint.
Hate is too loud, too clumsy for control.
Better the quiet confidence of right.
Better the peace of being certain still.

Almost as if the room grows warm with breath,
The air thickens as exits fade from thought.
Each stone denies another human face.
Each stone insists: You stand because you must.

I hear of One who knelt instead of ruled,
Who touched the untouchable without disgust,
Who trusted women’s witness over fear,
Who tore down walls and named it Kingdom come.

The ember flares.
It hurts.

Almost as if this mercy were a threat,
I press it down with practiced certainty.
Peace costs too much. Control is cheaper still.
The wall grows taller as the doubt grows thin.

The surcoat tears along its ancient seam.
The cloth gives way where fire brushed too close.
I call it proof of war well fought and just—
For armor breaks when righteousness stands firm.
I do not ask whose blood has fed the dust.

I am no longer angry. I am sure.
And certainty requires no open door.
The candle fades. I did not need its light.
Light asks for witness. Stone requires none.

I remain. I always will. Rest now in me.
I am the father that thou lackedst long.
I am the shelter from unbearable choice.
I am the voice that spares thee asking why.

Almost as if thou wert not only him,
But standing here where breath and stone converge,
Attend this thought that presses through the page:

Where art thou building walls and naming them
Protection?
Where hast thou worn the weight of older creeds
And called it truth because it bruised thy bones?
Where hast thou silenced flickers in thy chest
Because they asked thee see another face?

The heart still beats—faint, obstinate, alive—
Not slain by God, but quieted by will.
The wall remains. The surcoat hangs in rags.
The room stands finished, sealed, immaculate.

What comes of this—
Collapse or coronation—
Is not resolved by verse nor voice nor stone.

Almost as if the ending were not his.
Almost as if the ending waited thee.

Written by Marguerite Grace 
Copyright Protected 

A call, not a trend. A mission, not religion.

https://suno.com/song/a6ad6062-4ff7-4882-b07e-bbea25fbc839

GO YE THEREFORE, AND TEACH ALL NATIONS ✝️🔥

A call, not a trend. A mission, not religion.

Same Jesus. Same gospel. Same command.

This song is my testimony—to follow Christ and make disciples of all nations. 🌍📖

🎶 GO YE THEREFORE, AND TEACH ALL NATIONS

✍️ Lyrics by Marguerite Grace

🌐 write-with-grace.com

#ChristianRap #GospelTruth #DiscipleLife #GreatCommission #FaithOverFear #JesusChrist

suno.com/s/TpNK4JjzUjMtlamk

🌿🎶 Maranatha — Bringing Our Hearts to Jesus 🎶🌿

A song written as prayer, repentance, and hope — a simple cry: Come, Lord Jesus.

Dedicated with love to Grandma 🤍

🕊️ Lyrics by Marguerite Grace

🌐 write-with-grace.com

#Maranatha #ComeLordJesus #OldTimeFaith #ChristianHymn #DedicatedToGrandma #WriteWithGrace #PrayerInSong ✨

A Canticle in Eight Acts with Interludes

The Missionary Child from Zion — The Rose-Gathering Canticle

A Canticle in Eight Acts with Interludes


IN PROLOGUE

Before the sun had learnt his golden trade,
Before the moon had hung her silver lamp,
Ere clocks had teeth, ere seasons had a name,
There was but Breath, and Word, and Will—אֱלֹהִים (Elohim)—“God.”
And in that hush, where nothing yet was “then,”
A child was set—no babe of flesh alone,
But purpose clothed in wonder’s mortal gown:
A maiden small, yet vast with borrowed hours,
Whose feet were shod with ages, not with dust.
From Zion’s height (though Zion yet slept unborn)
Her calling rang: הִנֵּנִי (Hineni)—“Here am I.”

Her name the scrolls write not; for she is sign,
A lamp to those who stumble in the dark.
She is The Missionary Child from Zion—
Not sent to change the tale, but tell it true;
To walk the corridors of holy time
And ask of every turning, every tear,
What God did speak, and what His people heard.

And still one question, like a pulse of fire,
Beat in her breast through all the whirling years:
“Where is the Anointed—where is Christ?
When shall the Promise stand with mortal feet,
And how shall man be made a new-made man?”

So let the curtain rise on beginnings.


ACT I — GENESIS: THE GARDEN, THE WOUND, THE ROAD

She saw the light break out as if a harp
Were struck by God, and darkness fled in shame.
The waters shivered, hearing “Let there be,”
And air was born with scent of newborn rain.
She tasted morning—clean as uncut fruit—
And heard the deep like drums beneath the world.

Then Eden: green so sharp it seemed to sing;
A river’s laugh; the cool of evening’s step
When God did walk. She watched the man, the woman,
Two candles set within a glass of peace.
The serpent’s whisper slid like oil on stone;
The bite rang loud though teeth made little sound—
And suddenly the garden knew of thorns.
She felt the first shame burn upon the skin,
The first hard gulp of sorrow in the throat,
And saw the flaming sword bar gentle gates.

She followed exile’s footprints into dusk,
Watched brother lift his hand against his blood—
And heard the ground cry out. She pressed her ear
To soil that drank a life it should not take.
She stood beside the ark when skies unbuckled,
When rain fell thick as judgment’s iron beads,
And smelled the pitch, the wet of frightened beasts,
The musk of survival in a floating world.
She saw the rainbow—God’s bright bow unstrung—
A painted oath across the washed-blue air.

Then Abram: star-eyed under desert frost.
She counted heavens with him, breath by breath.
A covenant cut; a promise stitched to time;
A child of laughter (Isaac) born of dust and grace.
She climbed the mount where knife and mercy met—
And heard the ram’s hooves scrape the bristled thorn.
“God will provide,” the air itself confessed.

She watched the wrestle in the midnight river,
When Jacob held and would not let God go—
And limped away with blessing like a bruise.
She walked with Joseph through a pit’s cold mouth,
Through prison’s stale, through Egypt’s perfumed courts,
To famine’s end, where forgiveness fed the world.

And all along, the child kept asking low:
“O Lord—Adonai—Thy promise, where doth walk?
Who is the Seed that crushes serpent’s head?”

Interlude of Roses — Genesis

Litany

CHILD: “My lord of clay, if I may beg but this—one single rose?”
ADAM: “I have but sweat and thistle—yet take what Eden left me.”
ROSE: A pale blush rose, dew-laden, with a faint green at the stem—like innocence remembering.

CHILD: “Mother of sorrows, grant me one rose—only one.”
EVE: “If I had kept the garden, I would give thee gardens. Take.”
ROSE: A white rose veined with soft gold, scented like crushed apple and twilight regret.

CHILD: “Sir, I ask no tale, no alms—only a rose.”
CAIN: “Wilt thou take from me?”
CHILD: “A rose may yet grow where blood hath fallen.”
ROSE: A dark maroon rose, almost black, velvet-petaled, smelling faintly of iron and smoke.

CHILD: “Gentle one, one rose—may I?”
ABEL: “Freely.”
ROSE: A soft lamb-white rose, small and trembling, with a honey-sweet fragrance.

CHILD: “Righteous sailor of judgment’s sea—one rose?”
NOAH: “After flood, all gifts are mercy. Take.”
ROSE: A rainwashed blue-lavender rose, cool-scented like wet cedar and clean earth.

CHILD: “Father of promise—one rose, I pray.”
ABRAHAM: “Child, the Lord provided the ram; He may provide thy rose.”
ROSE: A deep desert-sand rose, tawny and warm, edges kissed with crimson like altar-fire.

CHILD: “Beloved son of laughter—one rose?”
ISAAC: “If laughter lives, let it bloom.”
ROSE: A bright yellow rose, sunbold, with citrus perfume—joy surviving fear.

CHILD: “Prince who wrestled—one rose?”
JACOB: “Take it, little pilgrim; it is won by clinging.”
ROSE: A striped rose—cream and scarlet twisted together—like struggle braided into grace.

CHILD: “Dreamer and governor—one rose?”
JOSEPH: “For those who meant it ill—God meant it good. Take.”
ROSE: A royal purple rose, plush as velvet, smelling of myrrh and sweet wine.


ACT II — EXODUS TO DEUTERONOMY: SLAVERY’S CRY, THE SEA’S SPLIT HEART, THE LAW’S BRIGHT EDGE

She heard in Egypt bricks that thudded dull—
The sound of backs bent double under sun.
She tasted ash in mouths that dared to pray.
Then came a bush that burned yet would not die—
A flame like holiness that harms no leaf.
Moses removed his shoes; she felt the ground
As if it breathed: Most near, most otherworld.

Plagues marched like drums through Pharaoh’s granite will;
Frogs, gnats, and darkness thick as tarred despair.
She smelt the lamb’s warm blood on doorposts painted—
And heard the night-breath pass, the firstborn’s cry.
Bread rose not; haste was bitter on the tongue;
Yet freedom’s first taste cuts like sharp new wine.

The sea stood up like walls of startled glass;
She ran between them where the salt wind roared,
Where fish stared out like witnesses in blue.
Behind: the chariot’s rage; ahead: the dawn—
And then the waters fell like clapping hands,
And tyranny sank, gurgling, into silence.

In wilderness she heard the manna fall—
Soft as a hush, like dew with heaven’s scent.
She saw the rock give drink, the staff strike stone,
And thirst turn sweet upon a desert lip.
At Sinai lightning wrote with violent quills;
The mountain smoked; the people shook like reeds.
And God spoke Law—not chains, but a clean road:
“Hear, O Israel”—שְׁמַע יִשְׂרָאֵל (Sh’ma Yisra’el)—“Hear, O Israel.”

Yet in the camp, gold glittered like betrayal;
A calf, a dance, a faith grown thin and loud.
She watched the tablets shatter—thunder made to stone—
And felt the ache of love refused.

Through Leviticus, the blood of sacrifice
Steamed iron-sweet in air of tabernacle,
Not gore for gore, but shadow of a cure:
A holy lesson—sin is deathward deep,
Yet God makes way for sinners to draw near.

In Numbers, she walked circles of complaint,
Heard serpents hiss; saw bronze made healing sign;
Watched rebels swallowed by the yawning earth.
In Deuteronomy, Moses’ farewell shook,
A father’s voice on brink of promised land—
Then Nebo’s height; the last long look; the grave
Known only unto God.

And still her question grew a stronger wing:
“These lambs, these laws—what do they point unto?
Who is the Passover, the living Door?”

Interlude of Roses — Exodus to Deuteronomy

Litany

CHILD: “Great king—grant me one rose.”
PHARAOH: “A slave-girl’s whim?”
CHILD: “Nay—only a rose.”
ROSE: A hard, blood-red rose, glossy as lacquer, thorns sharp as pride, scent faintly bitter.

CHILD: “Lawgiver—one rose, if I may.”
MOSES: “Child, thou art tender; this desert bites. Yet take.”
ROSE: A scarlet-and-white rose, like fire rimmed with cloud, smelling of smoke and clean rain.

CHILD: “Priest of intercession—one rose?”
AARON: “For atonement’s sake, take it.”
ROSE: A snow-white rose with a faint crimson heart, like purity marked by mercy.

CHILD: “Captain of crossing—one rose?”
JOSHUA: “As the Lord bade, so shall I give.”
ROSE: A strong orange rose, sunrise-bright, smelling of crushed citrus and brave beginnings.


ACT III — JOSHUA TO ESTHER: LAND, KINGS, EXILE’S TEAR, AND HIDDEN HANDS

She watched the Jordan halt like startled time;
Its waters rose as if obeying breath.
Jericho’s walls fell down to trumpet-blast—
Not siege by steel, but praise that split the stone.

In Judges, she saw cycles like a wheel:
Sin, sorrow, cry, deliverance, then sin again—
A nation stumbling, yet not cast away.
She heard the strength of Samson snap like rope,
And Delilah’s soft betrayal in the dark.

Then Ruth: a gleaner in the barley’s gold;
She smelled the harvest, heard the gentle vow:
“Where thou goest, I will go.”
A foreign widow folded into grace—
A thread that led to kings.

In Samuel’s days, she heard the boy cry “Here”
Within the night where lamps were growing low.
Saul rose tall—then fell by disobedience.
David sang psalms that tasted salt and honey,
Fought giant fear with smooth and whistling stone,
Then sinned, then wept, then found mercy’s stern embrace.
Solomon’s wisdom flashed like polished bronze,
Yet his heart wandered after many loves.
The kingdom split like cloth torn down the seam.

Prophets thundered; idols clinked; the poor were crushed.
Elijah called down fire; she felt the heat
Scorch air like judgment. Yet in whisper small—
Not storm nor quake—God spoke a quieter flame.

Then exile: Babylon’s long iron song.
She sat by rivers where the harps hung mute,
And tasted tears that salted foreign bread.
In Daniel’s den she heard the lion’s breath—
Hot, beastly—yet restrained by unseen hand.
She smelled the furnace’ blaze where three men stood
And saw a fourth like “son of gods” beside them.

Esther—hidden courage in a royal hall—
Risked life with trembling poise: “If I perish…”
And deliverance came, though God’s Name stayed unspoken—
A mystery of providence behind the veil.

And still the child, now older in her eyes,
Would ask the night, would ask the shining day:
“If God is faithful, why this endless wound?
Where is the King whose reign makes hearts made whole?”

Interlude of Roses — Joshua to Esther

Litany

CHILD: “Strong one—one rose?”
SAMSON: “My hands break gates, yet could not guard my heart. Take.”
ROSE: A huge crimson rose, heavy-headed, smelling of musk and bruised pomegranate.

CHILD: “Lady—one rose, I pray thee.”
DELILAH: “Why should I?”
CHILD: “For nothing thou needst know.”
ROSE: A pale peach rose, deceptively sweet, fragrance like honey over a hidden blade.

CHILD: “Kind gleaner—one rose?”
RUTH: “If thou art hungry, child, take grain—and take the rose besides.”
ROSE: A soft coral rose, warm as hearthlight, smelling of bread and field-wind.

CHILD: “Prophet-child grown old—one rose?”
SAMUEL: “Speak, little one.”
CHILD: “Only: may I have a rose?”
SAMUEL: “Then take it, and keep thy listening heart.”
ROSE: A clear white rose with silver sheen, scent like olive blossom and clean linen.

CHILD: “O king—one rose?”
SAUL: “Wouldst thou take from me, who lost the favor I once held?”
CHILD: “A rose may be given even by a trembling hand.”
ROSE: A thorn-rich rose, red fading to rust, scent sharp like cedar-sap and regret.

CHILD: “Sweet psalmist—one rose?”
DAVID: “Take it—God desireth truth in inward parts.”
ROSE: A deep pink damask rose, perfume rich as song, with a salt note like weeping turned to worship.

CHILD: “Wise king—one rose?”
SOLOMON: “All is gift, child; wisdom too is borrowed. Take.”
ROSE: A golden-ivory rose, petals thick as parchment, scented with frankincense and cedar.

CHILD: “Prophet of flame—one rose?”
ELIJAH: “In the still small voice, child—there bloometh gentler things.”
ROSE: A bright scarlet rose edged with white, like fire kissed by whisper, scent like smoke and mint.

CHILD: “Faithful exile—one rose?”
DANIEL: “God shut the lions’ mouths; may He keep thy heart.”
ROSE: A midnight-blue rose (so dark it seems black) with a cool spice scent like star-anise and stone.

CHILD: “O steadfast ones—one rose each?”
THE THREE MEN: “We will not bow—yet we may give.”
ROSES: Three roses, each distinct: one pure white; one vivid orange; one red like molten ember—each smelling of clean air after fire.

CHILD: “Queen of courage—one rose?”
ESTHER: “If it be for life, I give it.”
CHILD: “It is for…a love thou needst not name.”
ROSE: A regal red-and-gold rose, petals like satin, scent like rosewater and trembling bravery.


ACT IV — JOB TO SONGS: WISDOM’S DEPTH, LOVE’S FIRE, AND PRAYERS LIKE LAMPS

In Job she heard the honest howl of man—
Cinder on the skin, questions like jagged glass:
“Why?”—that word that cuts the throat of peace.
And God replied—not petty explanation,
But whirlwind grandeur: seas, constellations, beasts—
The world too wide for small, proud certainty.
Job bowed, and found that mystery can be mercy,
And dust may yet be held by holy hands.

In Psalms, the child drank music like cool water:
“Lord is my shepherd”—green pastures in her mind;
“Out of the depths”—a sob turned into prayer;
“Hallelujah”—praise like bells in storm.
In Proverbs, wisdom called in city streets;
In Ecclesiastes, vanity wore a crown;
In Songs, love burned like coals that none can quench—
A hint of greater Love that would not fail.

Her question changed its clothing, yet stayed one:
“How shall the Holy dwell with broken ones?
How shall the heart be washed, not merely warned?”

Interlude of Roses — Wisdom Books

Litany

CHILD: “Sufferer—one rose?”
JOB: “Though He slay me—yet will I trust. Take.”
ROSE: A smoke-gray rose touched with lavender, scent like rain on dust—lament softened into faith.

CHILD: “O songs of Zion—grant me one rose.”
THE SONGS: “Take praise, take ache, take hallelujah.”
ROSE: A many-petaled pink rose, layered like harmonies, fragrance like honeyed breath and salt tears.

CHILD: “Lady Wisdom—one rose?”
WISDOM: “Choose me, child, above rubies.”
ROSE: A clear apricot rose with copper edges, scent like ripe fig and warm parchment.

CHILD: “O love—one rose?”
LOVE: “Set me as a seal upon thine heart.”
ROSE: A lush crimson rose with a velvet black center, scent intoxicating—wine, spice, and longing.


ACT V — ISAIAH TO MALACHI: PROMISE SHARPENS, SILENCE GATHERS

Isaiah opened like a temple door—
She saw the throne, the seraphim’s bright cry:
“קָדוֹשׁ, קָדוֹשׁ, קָדוֹשׁ”—Kadosh, Kadosh, Kadosh—
‏And felt her own uncleanliness like smoke.
‏Then promise poured: a virgin, a child, a name—
‏Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Prince of Peace;
‏A servant wounded, pierced, rejected, crushed—
‏Yet bearing many, healing by His stripes.
‏She trembled, tasting prophecy like iron.

‏Jeremiah wept—his tears were stones of truth.
‏He spoke of a New Covenant written not on rock
‏But on the heart. Ezekiel saw wheels
‏And heard of bones made flesh by Spirit’s breath—
‏A valley singing life where death had camped.
‏Hosea lived the ache of faithful love
‏Chasing a wandering bride.

‏Jonah ran—she smiled at that wild flight—
‏Yet mercy chased him to the deep’s dark throat,
‏And Nineveh repented. Micah spoke it plain:
‏Do justice; love mercy; walk humbly with thy God.

‏Then Malachi—last prophet’s closing chord—
‏A promise: one will come to turn the hearts;
‏A messenger will clear the coming way.
‏And after that—a silence long and thick,
‏Four hundred years where scripture’s ink lay still.
‏The child walked through that hush as through cold fog,
‏Hearing in absence the loud ache of longing.

‏Now her one question blazed as bright as dawn:
‏“Is He at hand? Will God Himself draw near?
‏Will Word take flesh—and if He comes…where?”

Interlude of Roses — The Prophets

Litany

CHILD: “Seer of holiness—one rose?”
ISAIAH: “Here is thy sign: the Lord shall comfort. Take.”
ROSE: A pure white rose edged in crimson, scent like smoke and lilies—purity and sacrifice in one.

CHILD: “Weeping prophet—one rose?”
JEREMIAH: “My eyes run down with rivers. Yet take.”
ROSE: A soft violet rose, drooping slightly, fragrance like wet stone and mourning incense.

CHILD: “Watchman—one rose?”
EZEKIEL: “The heart of stone shall be made flesh. Take.”
ROSE: A strange green rose (pale jade), crisp-scented like fresh herbs—new heart, new breath.

CHILD: “O steadfast visions—one rose.”
VISION: “The Most High ruleth.”
ROSE: A starry-speckled white rose, as if dusted with night, scent like cool myrrh.

CHILD: “Husband of sorrow—one rose?”
HOSEA: “Love that returns is God’s own parable. Take.”
ROSE: A soft red rose with a torn-looking edge, yet fragrant—rosewater and salt—love that bleeds and stays.

CHILD: “Runaway prophet—one rose?”
JONAH: “Mercy swallowed me and spat me back. Take.”
ROSE: A sea-foam pale rose, almost pearl, scent like brine and clean wind.

CHILD: “Speaker of justice—one rose?”
MICAH: “Walk humbly.”
ROSE: A simple wild rose, pink and open-faced, scent like sunwarmed grass and honesty.

CHILD: “Last herald—one rose?”
MALACHI: “He cometh—prepare.”
ROSE: A deep ember-orange rose, glowing at the edges, scent like cinnamon and coming dawn.


ACT VI — THE GOSPELS: THE FACE SHE SEEKS, AT LAST IN DUST AND BREATH

Then—Bethlehem.
Not marble halls, but stable’s sour hay;
Warm animal breath; the sweet, sharp milk of life;
A mother’s groan; the cry that split the night.
She heard the angels tear the sky with song,
And shepherds come with mud upon their heels.
A star stood still like heaven holding breath.
Magi bowed, and frankincense bit the air.

A tyrant raged; children were slaughtered—
Her stomach clenched; her tears ran hot and fast.
Yet flight to Egypt saved the promised Child,
And prophecy folded in on prophecy.

Jordan’s waters kissed the carpenter’s bare feet.
The heavens opened; Spirit dove like peace;
A voice: “My Son beloved.”
And in the wilderness the tempter came—
Not with horns, but with clever words and hunger—
Yet Christ stood firm; the bread of God prevailed.

She followed Him through villages of ache:
Blind eyes opened like windows at sunrise;
Lepers, once rot and loneliness, were touched—
And touch was medicine. She heard demoniacs
Scream as darkness fled. She watched the widow’s son
Sit up and breathe, as death forgot its name.
She heard Him say, “Thy sins be forgiven”—
And felt the scandal and the mercy clash.

He ate with sinners; Pharisees grew sharp;
He told of seeds and pearls, of sons who ran,
Of fathers who ran faster.
He stilled the storm; the sea obeyed like dog
That knows its master’s step. He fed the crowds—
Five loaves, two fish—and fullness overflowed.
On holy mount, His face became a sun;
His garments shone; Moses and Elijah spoke—
And awe fell heavy as a mantle on the air.

And still the Missionary Child would ask Him—
Not doubting now, but hungering to know:
“Why come this way—through sorrow, dust, and blood?
What is Thy mission, Lord—what art Thou here to do?”

Then came the week where palm leaves kissed the road,
Hosannas loud as waterfalls in spring—
Yet underneath, betrayal warmed its knives.
A supper room: bread broke like body soon;
Wine dark as coming pain; a basin, towel—
The King kneeling to wash unworthy feet.
“Love one another.”
Outside: Gethsemane—olive trees like witnesses,
Night thick with prayer pressed out like oil.
He sweat like blood; the child could taste the fear
Metallic in the air.

Judas’ kiss. The torches. The false witness.
The rooster’s cry that broke bold Peter’s heart.
The lash. The crown of thorns. The Via Dolorosa—
Stones underfoot slick with spit and shame.
Nails rang like hammers in the skull of earth.
The sky went dark at noon.
She heard Him cry (Aramaic torn from depth):
אֵלִי אֵלִי לָמָה שְׁבַקְתַּנִי (Eli, Eli, lama sh’vaqtani)—“My God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me?”
‏She smelled the vinegar; she heard the jeers;
‏She watched the curtain of the temple tear—
‏As if God ripped the barrier Himself.
‏And then: “It is finished.”
‏A spear. Water and blood.
‏A borrowed tomb, cold as unanswered grief.

‏Here is the climax, the turning of all worlds:
‏The child fell down, her question cracking open—
‏Not “Where is Christ?” but “What is love?”
‏And love answered with a cross.

‏But dawn returned with shock of rolling stone—
‏A quake; guards like dead men; graveclothes left behind
‏Like shed-off winter.
‏“Mary,” He spoke—one word that made her weep.
‏He ate; He walked; He showed His wounded hands—
‏Not hiding scars, but crowning them with peace.
‏To Thomas: “Touch and see.”
‏To all: “Go—make disciples.”

‏Then, lifting from their sight, He rose—
‏And angels said He would return again.

‏The Missionary Child, trembling with bright tears,
‏At last knew what her mission always was:
‏To bear true witness—book by book, breath by breath—
‏That every road of Scripture leads to Him;
‏That sacrifice and kingdom, exile and return,
‏Are threads that bind the world unto the Christ.

Interlude of Roses — The Gospels

Litany

CHILD: “Blessed woman—may I ask one rose?”
MARY (mother): “Little one, what lack’st thou?”
CHILD: “Only a rose.” (Her voice breaks like thin glass.)
ROSE: A pure white rose with a blush-pink heart, fragrance like warm bread and lullaby tears.

CHILD: “Good sir—one rose?”
JOSEPH (guardian): “I am but keeper; yet take.”
ROSE: A modest cream rose, sturdy stem, scent like cedar shavings and honest labor.

CHILD: “Fathers of the field—one rose?”
SHEPHERDS: “We have but praise—yet take.”
ROSE: A wild dog-rose, soft pink, open and starry, scent like grass and night air.

CHILD: “Wise travelers—one rose?”
MAGI: “Thou ask’st a small thing—take it.”
ROSE: A rich red rose dusted with gold pollen, scent like frankincense and distant roads.

CHILD: “King—may I ask one rose?”
HEROD: “Why?”
CHILD: “For nothing I will tell.”
ROSE: A harsh crimson rose with jagged thorns, scent thin and sharp—like power rotting at the root.

CHILD: “Voice in wilderness—one rose?”
JOHN THE BAPTIST: “He must increase.”
ROSE: A simple white rose with a blue tint at the edge, scent like river-water and repentance.

CHILD: “Sir—one rose?”
JUDAS: “Dost thou mock me?”
CHILD: “Nay. I am only…hungry to gather beauty.”
ROSE: A sickly pale rose streaked with gray, scent faint—like perfume spilled on cold stone.

CHILD: “Fisher—one rose?”
PETER: “I denied Him.”
CHILD: “Then give, and weep.”
ROSE: A deep sea-pink rose, salted at the petals, scent like brine and forgiveness.

CHILD: “Doubter made sure—one rose?”
THOMAS: “My Lord and my God.”
ROSE: A white rose with a red-splashed tip, scent like clean linen and startled faith.

CHILD: “Woman of the garden—one rose?”
MARY MAGDALENE: “I have seen the Lord.”
ROSE: A bright dawn-rose—pink turning to gold—scent like morning air and astonished joy.

CHILD: “Rabbi…Adonai…if I may ask…” (Her throat floods; words drown.) “…one rose?”
CHRIST: (Soft as bread in His own hands.) “Little one.”
CHILD: “Only a rose.” (She cannot tell Him. She cannot.)
ROSE: A rose beyond naming—white and red together, as if snow and blood agreed; fragrance like myrrh, like honey, like home. It hurts to breathe it.


ACT VII — ACTS TO JUDE: FIRE ON TONGUES, CHAINS AS HYMNS, AND LETTERS LIKE LAMPS

At Pentecost she heard a rushing wind
Fill up the house; she saw the tongues of fire
Rest on the heads of ordinary men—
And common speech became a holy flood.
Three thousand hearts were pierced; baptism waters
Sparkled like joy in sun.

She walked with apostles through prisons’ iron breath:
An angel opened doors; chains fell like leaves.
She watched Stephen die with heaven in his eyes,
Praying for those who threw the stones.
She followed Saul—now Paul—struck blind by light,
Made new by grace, a former wolf turned shepherd.

She sailed with him through storms; she heard the hymns
Sung in the midnight cells; she saw shipwrecks,
Serpents, riots, councils, and bold defense—
And always Christ proclaimed.

Then letters—Romans’ depth of grace;
Corinthians’ love that bears and hopes;
Galatians’ freedom; Ephesians’ armor bright;
Philippians’ joy in chains; Colossians’ Christ supreme;
Thessalonians’ hope of His return;
Timothy, Titus—steadfast order in the flock;
Hebrews’ great High Priest; James’ living faith;
Peter’s suffering, John’s abiding love;
Jude’s warning to contend.

The child learned this: the Church is not a throne,
But pilgrim feet upon a bloody road;
And still the question—now refined to flame—
Became the cry of every watching heart:
“How shall we endure till Thou return, O Lord?”

Interlude of Roses — Acts and the Letters

Litany

CHILD: “Martyr bright—one rose?”
STEPHEN: “Lord, lay not this sin to their charge.”
ROSE: A luminous white rose, almost glowing, scent like clean air and heaven-near peace.

CHILD: “Apostle—one rose?”
PAUL: “Grace be with thee.”
ROSE: A thorny red rose with a strong straight stem, scent like ink and ship-salt—mission sharpened into mercy.

CHILD: “Son in the faith—one rose?”
TIMOTHY: “Pray for boldness.”
ROSE: A shy pale pink rosebud, barely opened, scent like spring—courage learning to bloom.

CHILD: “Builder of order—one rose?”
TITUS: “Let all things be done with soundness.”
ROSE: A firm coral rose, tidy petals, scent like citrus and clean linen.

CHILD: “Teacher—one rose?”
JAMES: “Be ye doers.”
ROSE: A practical wild rose, rose-red with strong hips, scent like earth and honest sweat.

CHILD: “O suffering counsel—one rose.”
LETTER: “Hope to the end.”
ROSE: A resilient rose, deep red with frost-white edges, scent like winter and endurance.

CHILD: “Beloved elder—one rose?”
JOHN: “Little children, love one another.”
ROSE: A soft white rose with a pink halo, fragrance gentle—like comfort after fear.

CHILD: “Contender—one rose?”
JUDE: “Keep yourselves in the love of God.”
ROSE: A sharp-scented red rose with pointed petals, smelling of spice and vigilance.


ACT VIII — REVELATION: THE VEIL LIFTS, THE LAMB REIGNS, THE WORLD MADE NEW

Patmos: salt wind; rock; the smell of seaweed;
An old man exiled with a burning pen.
The child stood near as visions broke like waves:
Lampstands; seals; horsemen; trumpets; bowls of wrath;
A dragon’s rage; a beast’s loud blasphemies;
A scarlet harlot; Babylon’s collapse;
The Rider True; the Word like sharpened sword;
The dead raised up; the books; the final court.

Then—like rain after a long drought—
A new heaven, and a new earth, and holy city,
New Jerusalem, descending bright as bride.
No more death; no mourning; no crying; no pain.
A river clear; the tree of life in fruit;
And God Himself with men.

And here the last great note: the Spirit and the Bride
Say, “Come.”
And Christ: “Surely I come quickly.”
The Church replies in Aramaic prayer: מָרַנָא תָּא (Maranatha)—“Our Lord, come.”

Interlude of Roses — Revelation

Litany

CHILD: “Seer of the end—one rose?”
JOHN: “Write what thou hast seen.”
ROSE: A stark white rose with icy blue undertone, scent like sea-salt and lightning.


EPILOGUE — “UP UNTIL THIS TIME”: THE CHILD TURNS TO US

Now stands the Missionary Child from Zion
At the edge of our own loud, electric days—
Where screens glow blue like restless, sleepless seas,
Where many know of Christ yet do not know Him,
Where hearts are hungry though the tables groan.

She does not add to Scripture; she does not gild it—
She simply tells it, with all senses awake:
The hay of Bethlehem, the salt of Galilee,
The cedar smell of Solomon’s proud halls,
The ash of exile, the blood of covenant,
The thunder of Sinai, the hush of empty tomb.

And if you ask: what one and only thing
This time-traveling witness most would ask—
It is this, distilled from every age and ache:

The Child’s One Burning Question

“How shall a human heart be made clean and whole—
and how shall we live, faithful and unafraid,
until the King returns?”

The Child’s Mission

To testify—book by book—that God’s works are true,
that His promises are not tales but covenants,
and that all roads of Scripture converge in Christ:
Creator, Redeemer, Lamb, King, and Coming Lord.

When She Realizes

She senses it from the first promise in Eden—
yet she knows it fully at the Cross and the Empty Tomb:
that her wandering was always a guided path,
and her purpose was always witness, not wandering.


CODA — The Foot of the Cross, and the Roses He Never Had

And now—O hush.
She comes again to Golgotha, not in thunder,
But on small feet that tremble with devotion.
Her arms are full—so full—of gathered beauty:
Roses of desert sand and river mist,
Roses of exile and of homecoming,
Roses of kings and widows, prophets, martyrs,
Roses of sinners’ night and saints’ hard dawn—
Each one a different tongue of color speaking,
Each one a different wound made into perfume.

She has not told a soul.
Not Adam, bowed beneath the first “alas,”
Not Abraham, who measured stars like promises,
Not Moses, whose hands held law and longing,
Not David, wet with psalms,
Nor Esther, brave in silence—
Not even Peter, broken open into love—
Not even Mary, mother of the Lamb—
Not even Him.

Yet all the while she saw it—she saw it true:
The Christ, who gives Himself for every nation—
For every color under heaven’s lamp,
For every language ever breathed as prayer—
He stood with blood for garment, thorns for crown,
And no rose in His hand.
No soft thing. No sweet thing. No beauty offered—
Save what His own torn love had made of shame.

And she—oh child—she cannot bear it.
Her hunger is not for bread, but to give beauty
To One who fed the world with His own heart.

So she kneels down. The ground is hard.
The air is iron. Her throat is salt.
Her tears fall fast—like that first rain on Eden’s exile.
She lays the roses down, not in a heap,
But one by one, as if each were a name
That God remembers.

She places first the Eden-blush rose—
Then Noah’s rainwashed lavender—
Then Abraham’s sand-warm flame-edged bloom—
Then Moses’ fire-and-cloud rose—
Then Ruth’s hearth-coral kindness—
Then Isaiah’s white-with-crimson prophecy—
Then Mary’s lullaby-white rose—
Then Stephen’s luminous peace—
Then Paul’s thorny mission-red—
Then the nameless rose Christ gave her—
White and red together, like mercy married to pain.

She does not speak her secret still—
Only whispers, scarcely sound at all:

“הִנֵּנִי… Hineni.”
‏Here am I.
‏Small.
‏Nothing.
‏Glad.

‏And if the world could hear her heart, it would hear this:
‏Not pride, not show, not poetry for applause—
‏But a child, deliberate in mission, sweet as dawn,
‏Trying to give a suffering Savior
‏One small garden’s worth of tenderness.

‏Then, in the hush where sorrow turns to gold,
‏It seems the wind grows softer round the cross—
‏As if the universe inhales the rose-scented offering
‏And lets it out as peace.

‏And she, her cheeks all wet, her hands all empty,
‏Looks up into the face she sought through time—
‏And though she never tells what the roses were for,
‏Her eyes do.

‏For in her gaze is every era’s ache made gentle,
‏And every color’s beauty laid in love,
‏And every language gathered without fear—
‏And one unspoken truth, more lovely than a crown:

‏That the Lamb who wore thorns for all the earth
‏Shall yet be honored—
‏Even by a child—
‏With roses.


Written by Marguerite Grace 
Copyright Protected 

עֵץ הַזַּיִת

Written by Marguerite Grace

Written by Marguerite Grace

Copyright Protected

FRICTION BARRIER

A stern word for those who bruise peace and call it faith.

Truth doesn’t shout—it stands. Judgment isn’t ours, but the record is kept.

There is a payday, and grace is still open… for now.

🎧 Friction Barrier

✍️ Lyrics by Marguerite Grace

🌐 write-with-grace

🔥📖⚖️🕊️

#FrictionBarrier #SpokenWord #PropheticPoetry #TruthTold #NoMoreMasks #FaithAndFire #WriteWithGrace

Marguerite Grace