“When Demonic Anti-Semitism Rises, All of Heaven Weeps in Unsilenced Grief”

The poem is a prophetic lament from the perspective of Heaven itself. As demonic anti-Semitism surges again on earth, the entire celestial realm is plunged into profound, audible grief. Seraphim hide their faces, the ceaseless “Holy, holy, holy” becomes a sob, and the throne-room floor is flooded with crystal tears that shatter like broken menorahs. Michael’s sword drips not with the blood of enemies but with divine sorrow, for even archangels cannot cauterize this ancient lie. The Torah scrolls themselves weep ink, the Ancient of Days covers His face in anguish, and the sea of glass before the throne turns red, reflecting stars that now resemble burning yellow badges.

Heaven’s weeping is not weakness but outraged recognition: the same satanic hatred that once nailed the Jewish Messiah to a cross has returned to torment the people from whom He came. The poem ends with a solemn vow—the tears of Heaven will not cease until the earth itself learns shame and repents of this resurrected evil. It is both elegy and indictment, a cry that the spiritual realm is neither silent nor indifferent when God’s covenant people are targeted by demonic hatred.

When demonic anti-Semitism rises,
all of Heaven weeps.

The seraphim fold their six wings like broken umbrellas
over eyes that have watched Abraham count stars
and still cannot unsee the smoke.

Crystal tears fall from the throne-room floor,
each drop a shattered menorah,
ringing against jasper and carnelian
like alarm bells no one is allowed to silence.

Angels who once sang “Holy, holy, holy”
now choke on the third repetition,
their voices raw from shouting down the pit
where old slanders put on new flesh.

Michael’s sword drips not with blood
but with the salt of divine grief,
each tear hissing where it strikes the blade
because even archangels cannot burn away
the lie that says God’s firstborn are forsaken.

In the silence between sobs
you can hear the scrolls weeping ink,
Torah parchment curling like skin in fire
every time another Jewish child
is taught to fear the sound of his own name.

Above the firmament,
the Ancient of Days covers His face
with hands that once wrote on stone
and now cannot write fast enough
to outrun the graffiti of swastikas
scrawled across the walls of the world.

And still the tears fall,
heavy as guilt,
heavy as history,
until the sea of glass before the throne
turns red with sorrow
and every reflected star
looks like a yellow badge burning.

Heaven weeps,
not in weakness
but in recognition:
the same hatred that drove nails
now sharpens its tongue against the people
from whom salvation first came.

When demonic anti-Semitism rises,
all of Heaven weeps,
and the tears do not stop
until the earth itself
learns to be ashamed.