Heaven is not still.
Not now.
Not when the hourglass is down to its last grains of sand.

The throne room pulses,
electric with anticipation,
the atmosphere thick with expectancy.
The angels shift in place,
their coronation songs echo in celestial halls.
They know their next cry will not be soft,
but a trumpet blast so fierce
it will shake graves open,
call sleeping saints from their slumber,
and send the living skyward
their burdens abandoned in the wind.

And there—on the edge of His throne—
Jesus leans forward.
One foot planted in the courts of heaven,
the other pressing against the rim of the earth.
His gaze is locked on a world unraveling,
His hands grip the armrests,
His voice a whisper beneath His breath:
“Father, is it time?”

Heaven holds its breath.

Guardian angels stand at attention,
hearts pounding with urgency
Rehearsing the stories they will soon tell—
of unseen battles,
of near-death moments turned miracles,
of the countless times they blocked, protected, shielded, intervened, and whispered:
“Hold on just a little while longer.”

Below—chaos is raging.

The earth is squirming in agony—
its bones fractured by quakes,
its lungs scorched by fire,
its veins flooded by tsunamis and storms.
Cities are crumbling, nations are falling,
war drums thundering, famine spreading,
and the air is thickening with the stench of genocide, infanticide, suicide.

Men’s hearts failing them for fear—
fear of the unknown, fear of the inevitable,
fear that the darkness is winning.
Lawlessness rises like smoke,
murder stains the streets, red
Despair grips the souls of the broken.

And hell?
Hell is unhinged.

Demons are moving amidst the earth without restraint,
their assault — reckless
their attacks — relentless
because they know
their time is just about… up.

And heaven?
Heaven is about to move.

A white horse stands ready.
Its rider breathes in the last moments of waiting.
He’s about to exchange His ministering gown for Kingly robes, clothed in righteousness,
His eyes ablaze with justice,
His name inscribed for all to see:
King of Kings! Lord of Lords!

No manger this time.
No wooden cross.
No crown of thorns pressed into his brow.

This time, He rides in power!
This time, He comes in glory!

The sky is about to shatter like glass,
The heavens will soon roll back like a scroll,
and the sound of His name
will shake the foundations of the earth.

Every knee will bow—
willingly or by force.
Every tongue will confess—
in joy or in terror.

And in that moment,
when heaven and earth collide,
eternity will kiss mortality,
sorrow will be swallowed up in defeat,
the grave will lose its victory
and the King will gather His own—
Thundering the words they have longed to hear:
“It is finished! Welcome home!”

Hold fast.
The King is on the edge.
The command—“Go! Go get My children!”
That time is almost… now.

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In creative solidarity, Dee