Where empires rose and crumbled into dust,
The threads of prophecy now interlace—
A tapestry of fire, of storm, of trust.

Wars whisper “nation against nation” still,
Yet echo louder than the ancient drums;
Earthquakes shake the cradles of the hills,
And famines stalk where golden harvests once
Bent heavy under sun and gentle rain.

Pestilence in vials, deception’s art—
False lights that flicker where the truth once shone;
The fig tree greens again on sacred ground,
And Israel stands, a beacon and a stone.

Knowledge surges like a tidal wave,
Yet wisdom falters in the hearts of men;
The gospel races to the farthest isle,
While lawlessness unchains what once was pen.

The Restrainer holds, but tremors tell
His grip may loosen in the appointed hour.
The Bridegroom’s footsteps echo soft and near—
Not with trumpet blast that shakes the tower,
But sudden, silent as the thief at night.

O Church, awake! Lift up your weary eyes.
The birth pains quicken; labor’s cry is near.
In twinkling moment, in a breath, a sigh,
The dead in Christ shall rise without a tear,
And we who linger shall be caught away—

To clouds of glory, to the wedding feast,
Where every sorrow finds its swift release.
No eye has seen, no ear has fully heard
The joy that waits beyond this trembling veil.

So watch, beloved. The signs are not in vain.
They point, they converge, they call like distant horn:
“Behold, He comes!”—and all shall be made new
In that grand event, that blessed Rapture morn.