Neglect Not So Great a Salvation: The Urgent Invitation Before Time Closes and Judgment Opens
(Free verse summary)
This free verse poem is a quiet, introspective meditation on the fragility of life and the gentle but insistent call of God to salvation. It portrays human existence as a fleeting mist or breath on glass—brief, easily erased—while a still, small voice speaks in the silences between heartbeats, asking why we delay.
The poem recalls the rich young ruler who stood before Jesus, felt the direct pull of truth, yet walked away sorrowful, choosing familiar wealth over unknown freedom. It reflects how we mirror this in subtler ways: postponing response with excuses of “tomorrow,” drowning conviction in noise, letting the heart grow calloused through repeated delay until the once-vivid tug fades—not because God withdraws, but because we stop listening.
Yet mercy remains present and patient. The invitation is immediate—“Behold. Today.”—not conditional on worthiness or convenience. God calls not to restrict but to liberate, offering abundant, eternal life instead of temporary comforts.
The closing urgency is stark: this breath is all we have; tomorrow is an illusion no one reaches. Eternity has no second chances, only this open door of grace that will one day close—not from divine cruelty, but from the simple end of time. The poem pleads gently yet firmly: when the tug returns, do not brush it aside. Turn. Answer. Step through—while the hand still reaches.
Somewhere a voice is speaking,
not loud, not lightning-split sky,
but the hush between heartbeats,
the pause after a name you almost remember.
Life arrives in mist,
lingers like breath on glass,
then wipes clean.
You blink and the room has changed;
the child is grown,
the friend is gone,
the promise you made to yourself
slips further down the calendar.
Many feel it—
that pull when the house is still,
when laughter fades and the ceiling stares back,
when something older than you
leans close and asks,
What are you waiting for?
The rich young man felt it too.
He stood inches from the one who is the way,
saw love looking straight through his polished surface,
heard Sell everything. Follow me.
And sorrow wrapped him like a cloak.
He walked away slowly,
each step measuring treasure against truth,
choosing the weight he already knew
over the freedom he could not yet carry.
We do the same in smaller ways:
scroll past conviction,
turn up the noise,
tell the Spirit Tomorrow, when life settles,
when the kids are older,
when the bank account breathes easier,
when I’m not so tired.
Tomorrow is a thief with soft hands.
It steals the present while promising more time.
And the heart, trained to wait,
grows skillful at waiting—
until waiting becomes habit,
habit becomes hardness,
and the once-clear voice
sounds fainter, not because it stopped,
but because the ear stopped turning toward it.
Yet here, now,
mercy has not moved.
The invitation hangs in the air
like light through half-open blinds:
Behold.
Today.
Not when convenient.
Not when you feel worthy.
Now.
He does not shout to shame you.
He speaks to save you.
Not to chain, but to unchain.
Not to take life, but to give it—
thicker, truer, forever.
Eternity has no clock.
No second chance waiting in the wings.
Only this breath,
this moment,
this door still ajar.
If the tug returns tonight,
do not brush it aside like lint.
Do not say Later.
Later is a country no one has ever visited.
Turn.
Answer.
Step through.
The vapor rises, thins, disappears.
But the hand that reaches for you
does not vanish.
It waits—
until it cannot.
