Between the Waiting

Between the waiting for the One who is to come again, 

there is an unsteady lull of faith and fruitfulness.

Ones wondering how long the wait will be,

and should they interrupt their journeyings towards their other things.

There is sorrow in silence,

and treasure tightly held,

and women weep over your body broken for us,

and blood shed for us.

Grace in silence,

and nothing held sacred beyond the whisper of angel wings,

in the vaulted sphere of choral cathedral.

I sensed a song,

not of this Earth origin.

Heaven's praise somehow reaching our ears,

and lifting our hearts.

Could we sing with angels and keep time with them,

as they extend eternity into our close set sphere.

We cannot know the weight of glory they experience,

walking in the courts of heaven,

but our hushed hearts quiet before us as we are still,

and wait for what will be.

We will hear the trumpet sound,

and the dead will rise,

causing quite the commotion,

and we will see who we truly are,

reflected in His eyes of love.