Beneath the bruised and bending sky
where every dawn feels half a lie,
the earth in labor pains still cries—
a low, unyielding, ancient sigh.

The rivers carve their patient plea,
the mountains stand on bended knee,
creation wears its exile thin,
groaning deep for what has been

promised since the garden fell:
a Foot to crush the serpent’s spell,
a shout that splits the vaulted blue—
the dead in Christ rise first, then you

and I, still breathing, caught away,
snatched upward in a single day.
No trumpet’s blast to warn the world,
no sign to mark the flag unfurled—

just sudden glory, swift and bright,
the Bridegroom calling through the night.
We wait not for the dragon’s roar,
nor bowls of wrath poured to the floor,

but for the voice, the archangel’s cry,
the silver sound that splits the sky—
“Rise! Meet Him in the open air!”
and every eye will find Him there.

With lamps held trembling, oil still sweet,
we stand on tiptoe at His feet—
not of this age, but citizens
of heaven, longing for the Prince

who comes not first in judgment’s flame,
but for His own, to claim His name.
Then robes of white, then crowns of light,
then every tear erased from sight.

Until that flash—oh, maranatha!—
we watch, we pray, we hold the path.
The promise burns: He comes for me,
the King of kings in victory.

Maranatha.
Come quickly, Lord Jesus.
Come.