Death’s Defeat

I have been acquainted

with death lately, and heard

his howl at the sight

of light. We hath no fear,

for the scythe’s

slash is not the final

sound,

only for this mortal

flesh,

for the light

passes through all who

come before the Son

to the Father;

take up the armor that’s grown

dusty. Wield the sword

contained between the pages.

Generations have passed

pondering their purpose by building

Towers of Babel with the world’s

wisdom—

no wonder these patchwork

monoliths crack at the seams

when the trumpet horn blows;

the war drums of angelic

demon’s bellow

baleful beats, hypnotizing

hundreds

into a trance of misguided

righteousness, for the Enemy

twists

thoughts and hearts

so they hearken

his cloaked

hate for the light.

Where’s the rider

now? Where’s the horn

that once blew? The days in the West

grow ever shorter, yet the pillar

of salt that held up this lost

land has begun to list

to one side, crumbling

beneath the buried

truth. That the one true

King has used his messenger

masterfully. The darkness that strangleholds

young and old minds does not yet

know that the sparse

ramparts are now filled—

the rider rode alone to the hill’s

top, surrounded by walls of spears

aimed at his heart, his

horn cried a sobering

song of surrender. Surrender

to the supreme Lord,

lay down your worries

and wonder at His might.

For the day will come when

victory will be delivered into our hands;

not to lay low those that have strayed

afar, but to welcome the lost

flock back to the fold. To hoist

up the banner we burned

all those years ago, to blow the horn

that had rusted, to honor

the rider that came at the hour

our need was most great.