Before the stars were set in place,
Before the dust took breath and face,
The Triune rhythm formed the plan:
The Father’s will, the yielded Son,
The Holy Breath that binds in One—
No lesser worth, no fractured grace,
An equal glory, an ordered space.
And in that mirror, love takes stride:
The King who bleeds beside His bride,
The husband charged to bear the cost,
To lead by kneeling at the cross;
The wife who yields with sovereign grace,
Not cowering in a lower place,
But stepping in with quiet might,
Where holy order meets the light.
We left the fountain for the clay,
And hewed our cisterns in decay—
Cracked pits of fear where water dries,
Where panic rules and terror cries.
We raised our laws, we built our signs,
Demanding, forcing worldly lines,
For every fist that tries to steer
Is just the frantic child of fear.
Yet on the hill of Dothan stands
A seer with uncoercing hands;
Though Syrian chariots ring the plain,
He does not plead in frantic pain.
He whispers, Lord, unseal their eyes,
And sees the flaming stallions rise—
Then leads the blind with quiet grace
To dine within a feast’s embrace.
Down in the dust of Bethel’s shame,
Where cynics mocked the holy name,
The forest yielded to the Word,
And ancient covenant was heard.
While in the quiet room at Shunem,
A mother held the silence true:
Beneath a dead child’s frozen breath,
She barred the door against the death,
And met the sorrow in the road
With Shalom as her only code—
Repeating back the prophet’s vow,
Unwilling to forsake him now.
Across the dark, churned midnight lake,
Where waves and weary vessel shake,
The fourth watch breaks the human pride;
The phantom turns to King inside.
No sorcery, no grasping scheme,
No manipulation of a dream,
But Peter’s cry: Keleuson, Lord—
To stand beneath Your sovereign word.
He steps upon the churning foam;
The downward yielding bears him home.
For Aman is the timber’s girth,
The load that anchors heaven to earth.
Behold the three sticks laid across,
A bridge born not of crown, but cross:
One rests upon the second beam,
The second bears the third extreme,
The third loops under to sustain
The first above the deep domain.
No monarch crowns the higher place;
No servant drowns in base disgrace.
Each holds the other, firm and straight,
And wondrously, the downward weight
Does not divide, nor bend, nor break—
The heavier load the timbers take,
The tighter every joint will cleave.
In holy order we believe:
Three sticks, three persons, one true frame,
Held fast beneath the Lawgiver’s name.
