I. The Loom of Dawn
In the hush before the worlds were spun,
A loom of light stood in the void’s deep heart;
There, Thought was born as threads of sun,
And Word took wing on winds that never part.
The Weaver’s hand—eternal, scarred, and sure—
Drew gold from mercy’s vein, let silver pour
From rivers of His grace; then, rough and raw,
He carved the stones that sing beneath His law.
Yet shadows crept, and mortals wove in haste:
Hay of pride, wood of wrath, stubble of waste.

II. The Building
Upon the Rock that split the dark in twain,
A city rises, tier on gleaming tier.
Some raise their towers with the hurricane
Of fleshly zeal—timbers that crack and sear.
Others, with trembling fingers, set each gem
In sockets forged by prayer; their anthems hem
The sky with sapphire, topaz, chrysolite—
Each deed a star, each word a lance of light.
The air is thick with incense of the soul:
Frankincense of faith, myrrh of self-control.

III. The Trumpet
Then, sudden as the eagle’s stoop, a blast
Of molten music cleaves the firmament.
The dead in Christ arise; the shadows cast
By earthly suns dissolve in white ascent.
A throne of jasper, rimmed with thunder’s rim,
Stands over seas of glass; the seraphim
Veil faces with their wings, yet dare to sing:
“Holy, Holy, Holy—let the judgment ring!”
The books unfurl like banners in the gale;
Each heartbeat, whispered curse, each secret tale.

IV. The Fire
A river of white flame, alive, aware,
Pours from the throne and licks the works of men.
See! Towers of straw ignite in scarlet glare,
Their ashes whirl like locusts in the glen.
Yet Christ-centered deeds, though rough as ore,
Drink fire and blaze—to gold and silver soar,
To jewels refined, transmuted in the flame;
Each act for Him now bears His royal name.
The wood shrieks, splits; the hay dissolves to smoke;
But precious stones exhale a living cloak
Of rainbow light that wraps the Savior’s feet—
A carpet woven from the pure, the sweet.

V. The Loss and the Gain
One stands in rags of smoldering regret,
His crown of thorns now ash upon his brow;
“Lord, I built kingdoms,” yet the flames forget
The names he carved in sand. He learns the vow
Of emptiness. Another, poor in earth,
Steps forward barefoot; from his heart a birth
Of light erupts—his cup of water given
In secret now becomes a star in heaven.
The Savior’s eyes, twin furnaces of love,
Burn through the dross and bid the true rise above.

VI. The Great White Silence
Beyond the Bema, far across the gulf
Where mercy’s echo dies, another throne
Looms cold and terrible. No seraph’s gulf
Of song attends; the books of death alone
Are opened. There the unredeemed appear—
Their haystacks never kindled, never clear
Of gold. The Lake of Fire, a second death,
Swallows the stubble with unquenchable breath.
No tear is wiped; no name is found in grace;
Eternity is fixed in that white face.

VII. The Charge
O pilgrim, hear the crackle of the pyre
That waits beyond the veil! Let every thought
Be hammered on the anvil of desire
For Him alone. Let every word be wrought
In silver speech that will not tarnish when
The Refiner’s gaze consumes the hearts of men.
Build now with blood-bought nails, with tears, with prayer;
Let love be mortar, faith the cornerstone there.
For soon the trumpet, soon the blazing scroll—
And only what is Christ will pass the toll.

VIII. The Amen
Then let the cosmos kneel. The fire dies.
The gold remains, the silver, and the stone—
A city foursquare, with gates of pearl that rise
To greet the Lamb upon the central throne.
No night intrudes; no shadow dims the blaze
Of glory upon glory. Endless days
Resound with harps of those whose works endured:
“Well done, My servant—enter, rest secured.”
And every tongue, from pole to pole, shall sing:
“Worthy the Lamb—deeds burn unless for His sole glory,
Yet done for Christ become gold, silver, jewels—–the royal heir’s bright story!”