Throne of Uncreated Flame

Beyond the curtain of our night,
Where galaxies in silence spin,
A throne ascends through realms of light,
Where dawn and vesper melt within.

Its frame is jasper, veined with fire,
A carnelian heart that glows;
Around it arcs a rainbow spire,
Emerald-hued, where mercy flows.

No mortal eye could bear the blaze
That pours from Him who sits enthroned;
Yet seraphim, with wings ablaze,
Hide trembling faces, overawed.

Their sixfold pinions beat as one,
A storm of feathers tipped in gold;
Their voices rise like molten sun—
“Holy, holy, holy,” told.

The cry ignites the crystal sea,
A glassy mirror vast and still,
Reflecting lightning’s jagged spree
And thunder’s deep, unbroken will.

Seven torches dance before the throne,
Seven spirits, living flame;
Their sparks ascend like seeds unsown,
To kindle stars and call His name.

Twenty-four elders, robed in snow,
Their crowns of purest gold they fling;
They fall as waves of worship flow,
Before the Ancient of all Being.

And then the scroll, sealed sevenfold,
Lies weeping in the hand of night—
No one in heaven, earth, or hold
Could break its chains of shadowed might.

Until the Lion steps from Judah’s line,
The Root of David, fierce and bright;
Yet lo, a slaughtered Lamb divine
Stands bleeding still in deathless light.

His wounds are rubies, open, deep,
Each scar a river red and wide;
The elders fall, the creatures weep,
As heaven’s chorus swells with pride:

“Worthy the Lamb who tasted death,
To take the scroll and loose its seal!
Worthy the One who gave His breath,
That broken hearts might rise and heal!”

Ten thousand times ten thousand sing,
A sea of voices, white as foam;
Myriads upon myriads ring
The throne where love has made its home.

King of kings—no diadem of man
Can crown the brow that bore the thorn;
Lord of lords—the scepter in His hand
Is mercy’s rod, by justice born.

Amid the Tempest’s Roar

Amid the clamor of the age,
Where banners bleed and nations seethe,
Where drones in shadowed swarms engage
And rockets carve their paths of grief—

Smoke coils thick from shattered fields,
The earth recoils beneath the weight;
Shaheds and Sejjils streak like yields
Of hellish harvest, sealing fate.

In Ukraine’s frost, the swarms descend,
Iranian waves crash on Israel’s shore;
Hezbollah’s barrages never end,
While Gulf skies burn with missile lore.

Tehran reels as bunker-busters fall,
Beirut ignites in rocket rain;
From Kharkiv’s ruins to southern wall,
The air itself cries out in pain.

Yet turn thine eyes, O weary soul,
Beyond the smoke, the drone’s cold hum;
Above the thunder’s blackest roll
Shines forth the Throne where mercies come.

There Jesus sits in robes of flame,
His wounds like rubies, ever bright;
His scepter stills the wildest claim,
His gaze dissolves the endless night.

No drone can breach that crystal sea,
No rocket pierce those emerald walls;
The Lamb who triumphed over death’s decree
Reigns high where every tumult falls.

Fix here thy heart, let not alarm
Steal peace from those He calls His own;
For He who calms the fiercest storm
Has promised: “Fear not—I sit enthroned.”

In this dark hour, let worship rise
Like incense through the battle’s drone;
The King returns with pierced hands and eyes—
Our hope, our peace, forever known.

O Jesus Christ, our eyes would rise
To drink the splendor of Thy face;
Till faith gives way to open skies
And we behold Thee, full of grace.

Let lightning flash, let thunder roll,
Let every creature, far and near,
Proclaim with one unbroken soul:
“The Lamb is worthy—ever, here!”

May this frail song ascend as myrrh,
A trembling vapor to Thy throne;
Until the veil of time shall stir
And we shall know as we are known. Amen.