Watchman’s Hour

Trumpets practice as the daydreamer dreams.

The sleepwalkers walk.

The still corpse rots.

Altars glow, but not with urgency.

Instead, fog machines and purple strobe lights brush the air

not set it afire.

We learn the language of Christianity

without learning how to kneel.

The planet has not forgotten.

The fowls await and the wildebeests worship.

There is no hour to meddle.

You can’t postpone your fate.

I’m learning this as I watch loved ones drop like flies.

Each year a new grave cries.

The wick is burning low, now.

For whose name will be next.

When it comes, He will not ask permission.

The same hands once pierced

will carry both mercy and wrath.

Some will say, Surely not yet.

Others, Surely not ever.

But the watchman does not question,

he remains awake.

If you feel the weight of now,

if your spirit aches with words you can’t name,

if the world is pressing around you for an ending

do not harden that knowing.

There is still oil to be found before the wick burns out.

The Bridegroom is never late,

but maybe we are

too late for the Bridegroom.