To the Reader

Dear Reader,

This poem was written for that hour when the world grows quiet, and love looks past the last breath toward home. It is not a map of Heaven, nor a claim to know its courts. It is only an imagining—tender, ancient in hope—that when a soul draws near the threshold, Christ Himself gathers those who knew and loved that life, and heaven leans forward to receive them.

If you have lost someone, or sit beside a bed that is growing still, may these lines be a small lamp, not an answer. The greatest glory I have tried to paint is not gold or trumpet or angel-wing, but this: that the pilgrim is met, and that the first true sight is the Savior’s face.

Read it slowly. Read it as one might light a candle.

—The Poet

When the last light thins and the breath grows small,

and the soul stands trembling at the outer wall,

earth’s rooms fall still, as if a hymn had passed,

and night leans inward through the glass at last.

Then Christ the King, with a look grave and true,

calls every heart that the dying one knew.

“Come, husbands and wives who once walked as one,

come aunts and uncles, come daughter and son,

come children whose laughter still lives in the air—

the hour is holy; make ready, prepare.”

They gather like dawn on the luminous stair,

in garments of morning, with names spoken prayer.

Beyond them burns the city without night,

its walls of jasper drinking deathless light;

twelve gates of pearl stand open, vast and still,

and streets of gold run shining down the hill.

A river clear as crystal parts the throne,

and trees of life lean green on either stone.

A royal fanfare splits the courts of gold,

long trumpets blazing where the stars are rolled;

the gates of glory lean upon their bars,

and choirs of angels wait beneath the stars.

White wings like banners lift in living flame;

the music thunders, vast, and speaks His name.

No sun is needed there, nor moon’s pale crown;

the Lamb’s own radiance pours the glory down.

The elders cast their garlands at His feet;

the saints in white make all the air complete.

Grandparents rise from their thrones of rest,

their faces kindled with a joy unguessed.

They press to the threshold. They strain to see

the one they have loved through eternity.

A child’s cry rings across the burning height;

a spouse’s gaze finds home in sudden light.

Then silence falls, deep as the first amen,

and the Lamb Himself walks among them then.

No crown, no scepter, no seraphim’s wing

can equal the wonder of that welcoming.

He opens His arms as the pilgrim draws near,

and glory itself grows tender and clear.

For when the last veil is at last untwined,

and the soul steps over the shimmering line,

all heaven’s splendors, all the anthems that rise,

grow small beside one gift, one holy prize:

to stand among the ones so long held dear—

and see the Savior’s face, at last, drawn near.

**To God be the glory always and only.