Woe unto the shepherds
who stitched wolfskin
beneath garments of white.
Woe unto those
who perfumed their hands with oil,
yet carried the scent
of thirty pieces of silver.
They built sanctuaries
whose foundations were not stone,
but broken promises.
Every hymn
was another brick.
Every offering
another sacrifice.
Not unto God—
but unto an altar
that bore no holy fire.
There was incense...
yet Heaven did not breathe it.
There were prayers...
yet the angels remained silent.
There was shouting...
yet Truth stood outside,
knocking against locked doors
no congregation knew existed.
For a serpent
had learned
to preach.
Its tongue
had memorized Scripture
without ever tasting grace.
It crowned itself
with titles
that belonged only
to servants,
then demanded
the worship
reserved for God alone.
The sanctuary became
a wilderness.
The pulpit,
a throne.
The shepherd's staff,
a scepter.
And the flock...
the flock was counted
not by names,
but by profit.
Widows became revenue.
The weary
became merchandise.
The lonely
became currency.
The innocent
became offerings
laid upon an unseen altar
where Mammon smiled
beneath stained glass windows.
They called it revival.
Heaven called it famine.
For there is a hunger
more terrible than empty stomachs—
the famine
where Truth
is rationed,
where discernment
is mocked,
where every honest question
is nailed shut
inside the coffin
they name "submission."
I wandered there once.
I drank
from poisoned wells
thinking they were springs.
I bowed
before echoes
mistaking them
for the voice
that once divided seas.
Until the silence...
The dreadful,
holy silence...
where every idol
stops speaking.
In that silence
I heard footsteps.
Not mine.
His.
The Shepherd
who leaves ninety-nine
does not whisper forever.
He overturns tables.
He tears veils.
He drives wolves
from places
they mistook
for permanent homes.
And He places
eyes within the blind,
fire within the broken,
and a trumpet
inside those
the wolves believed
they had devoured.
So now I walk
through valleys
where shadows
still remember my name.
Not seeking revenge—
for revenge
belongs to dust.
I seek revelation.
Every hidden chamber
must meet the dawn.
Every secret covenant
must taste the light.
Every counterfeit kingdom
must hear
its own foundations
begin to crack.
Stone...
by stone.
Mask...
by mask.
Until the tower
they called holy
leans beneath
the unbearable weight
of truth.
For Babylon
never falls
because men are strong.
Babylon falls
because God
has finished
counting her days.
And I have seen
the writing
upon the wall.
Not written in ink—
but in tears
shed by the forgotten,
in prayers
that never reached
their painted ceilings,
in children
whose innocence
was traded
for another offering,
in every soul
that cried to Heaven
while earth
called them deceived.
The Judge has not slept.
His scales
have not rusted.
His books
remain open.
The trumpet
is already
drawing breath.
Let every shepherd
search his own shadow.
Let every wolf
count its remaining nights.
For when the Lion rises,
robes
will become ashes,
crowns
will become dust,
and every borrowed anointing
will melt away
like wax
before the face
of the Living God.
Then the remnant—
those who survived
without surrendering
their souls—
shall discover
what the wolves
could never understand:
No darkness,
however ancient,
has ever learned
how to survive
the morning.