Dear Reader,

I cannot be silent.

The same divine compulsion that seized the prophet Jeremiah still burns within the bones of every true herald of the Triune God. It is no mere emotional surge, but a sovereign ignition of the Holy Spirit — that burning fire shut up in the marrow of the soul, weary with restraint and impossible to contain. In a generation steeped in theological compromise, cultural idolatry, and a gospel diluted by human preference, the perfect, inerrant Word of our eternal Father, incarnate Son, and proceeding Spirit demands unashamed proclamation.

This is no abstract orthodoxy. It is the living tension of divine perfections: the holiness that kindles wrath against all ungodliness, the justice that demands satisfaction for treason against the Creator, and the mercy that flows from the riven side of the crucified Lamb. Here, at the cross, wrath and mercy kiss in substitutionary atonement — the Father crushing His beloved Son under the full weight of cosmic justice, so that sinners might be declared righteous by grace alone, through faith alone, in Christ alone. The inner-rant is thus both judgment and invitation: a holy violence against the rebel heart, clothed in the tenderness that pleads, “Turn! Why will you die?”

This poem is my feeble attempt to echo that prophetic fire — not as ornament for the ear, but as a thunderclap from the sapphire throne. It weaves the inerrancy of Scripture, the sovereignty of the Godhead, the urgency of escaping the second death, and the triumphant hope of resurrection life. May it stir within you the same unresting zeal: to speak with boldness and conviction, yet always bathed in the love that sent the Son to bear the cup of wrath we deserved.

We cannot be silent. Souls hang suspended between eternal glory and eternal perdition. The Kingdom advances through voices unashamed. Repent, believe the Gospel, and join the heralds before the Day of the Lord dawns.

For the glory of the Father, the exaltation of the risen Lamb, and the powerful working of the Spirit —

The Poet

Jeremiah 20:9 (ESV)

If I say, ‘I will not mention him, or speak any more in his name,’ there is in my heart as it were a burning fire shut up in my bones, and I am weary with holding it in, and I cannot.

Romans 1:16 (ESV)

For I am not ashamed of the gospel, for it is the power of God for salvation to everyone who believes…

In triune sapphire throne where Three shine One—

Ancient of Days enthroned on crystal sea,

The slaughtered Lamb whose wounds outshine the sun,

The rushing Wind that sets the prophet free—

Mercy awakens holy inner-tide,

A seraph’s coal upon the trembling lip,

A furnace veiled in flesh, a burning bride,

That storms the gates of death with thunderous grip.

Not silken phrases honeyed for the snake,

But living oracles, a lightning blade

That cleaves the marrow, rends the veiled heart awake,

And drags to blazing light the sins long laid.

Like Sinai’s crown of flame on trembling peak,

It thunders “Thus saith I AM!” through kings’ halls,

While mercy, robed in blood, begins to speak

And shatters rebel thrones with trumpet calls.

As Jeremiah’s bones became a blaze

No mortal vessel could contain or tame,

So mercy storms the dungeon of our days,

With courage forged in love’s eternal flame.

Conviction rolls like cherubim’s four wings,

Yet from the riven side sweet mercy streams—

A crimson river where the sinner clings,

While heaven’s justice and compassion gleams.

The flawless Word, more pure than gold refined,

More fixed than Zion’s mount or starry choir,

Upholds the wheeling galaxies aligned

And every soul beneath the Judge’s fire.

No jot shall fade, no tittle ever fall,

Though heaven and earth dissolve in final roar;

Its granite truth outlasts the siren’s call

And breaks the chains of death forevermore.

O inner fire, Ezekiel’s whirlwind throne,

A coal from off the altar’s glowing hearth,

It bursts the iron mouth, the heart of stone,

And summons corpses from the grave of wrath.

God’s wrath is holy—white, devouring light,

Not petty storm but cosmic justice pure,

Yet on the altar’s wood of darkest night

The Lamb absorbs the blaze and makes it sure.

There wrath and mercy kiss in wounds divine,

The Father’s pleasure crushing His own Son;

The Spirit seals the pardon with a sign—

The risen Lion, slaughtered, now the One.

With Peter’s voice like rushing mighty wind,

With Stephen’s countenance as angel-flame,

The herald lifts the cross through scorn and din,

That rebels might escape the wrath to come.

No terror of the crowd, no iron chain,

Can quench the love that risks eternal shame;

For every soul plucked from the second pain

Becomes a living trophy to His Name.

Thus mercy speaks—unflinching, robed in tears—

The blameless Word in whirlwind and in plea:

“Repent! Believe! The Kingdom’s gate appears!”

Flee wrath, and reign with Christ eternally.