Bridal Rain of Gold and Amethyst
A Summary

Rooted in Zephaniah 3:17, the poem proclaims that the mighty God does not sing one generic song over His people, but delights to compose and sing a unique, unrepeatable melody over every single believer.

He sings a different song for the fearful soul (soft as breath on winter glass), for the wandering prodigal (a bright reel of rivers and open roads), for the grieving widow (minor chords threaded with silver light), for the frightened child (a galaxy of fireflies in waltz time), for the battle-worn saint (brass and thunder that declare “Nevertheless, you triumph”).

And for you, right now, He is tuning a secret music no other ear will ever fully hear: a song shaped like the rain on the day you were born again, colored like your favorite sky, scented with warm bread from His own hands. It holds your hidden laughter, your unspoken dreams, and your name tucked inside every grace-note.

He sings as though the vast courts of heaven contain no one else, leaning close with eyes brighter than the sun, unable to contain His joy. Each note falls like snow that never melts, like bridal confetti made of eternity, telling you again and again: “You are My favorite, and I will never sing this song the same way twice.”

Zephaniah 3:17 (KJV)
The LORD thy God in the midst of thee is mighty; he will save, he will rejoice over thee with joy; he will rest in his love, he will joy over thee with singing.

He sings o’er thee, not with one common lay
That echoes through the throng in equal measure,
But crafts for every soul a private bay
Of living notes, an everlasting treasure.

For thee who wak’st with fear upon thy bed,
He breathes a cradle-song of rose and calm,
Like dawn-wind kissing lilies newly spread,
Till trembling heart is hushed beneath His balm.

For thee who wander’st far in sin’s dark wild,
He lifts a reel of gladness, swift and free,
With laughing waters, meadows mercy-tiled,
And bids thy feet keep time, “Return to Me.

”For thee whose nights are hollow, cold, and long,
He weaves a minor chord of amethyst,
Then threads it bright with flute-notes clear and strong,
Till grief floats soft upon His heart and rests.

For thee, dear child, who dread’st the gloom of night,
He strikes a waltz of fireflies round thy room;
Their golden motes spell “Fear not, I am Light,”
And midnight turns to garden all in bloom.

For thee, worn warrior, scarred by many a fray,
He sounds a trumpet-blast of brazen joy;
The drums reply, “Yet victors all the way!”
Till weary limbs leap up like a boy.

And unto thee—yes, thee—beneath My pen,
He tunes a song no other ear shall know:
The hush of rain the hour thou wast born again,
The hue of skies thou lov’st when winds are low;
The scent of bread new-broken at His board,
The secret laugh thou hid’st from all beside—
All woven in one never-heard accord
That holds thy name as pearl within its tide.

He stoops, the Eternal, o’er thy single soul,
As though the courts of heaven held none but thee;
His eyes outshine the sun, yet soft and whole,
And sings as a watchman sings at dawn who sees
the long-lost traveler safe across the sea.

Each note falls gentle as the snow’s first kiss,
Each phrase abides like leaves for ever green;
A bridal rain of gold and amethyst
That whispers, “Thou art Mine, and I am seen.”Hark!

Past the world’s loud clamour and its din,
Above thy grief, thy labour, and thy care,
A Voice more ancient than the seraphin,
Yet young as morning, parts the trembling air.

He cannot choose but sing—His heart must break
In music, for delight too vast to hold;
Thou art the song He ever longs to make,
And every measure thunders soft, “I chose thee before the worlds were told.”