The Trumpet’s Cry
🌬️ The Trumpet’s Cry 🌬️
In the hush before the harvest moon,
when shadows stretch and stars commune,
a sound arises, wild and high…
a trumpet tears the silent sky.
Not made of brass nor beaten gold,
but carved from horn in ages old,
its cry is raw, like wind through bone,
a voice from thrones beyond the known.
It calls the sleeping heart to wake,
to feel the tremble, let it quake.
It stirs the soul, it shakes the dust,
reminding flesh of fire and trust.
The trumpet calls the King to rise,
and saints to lift their weary eyes.
It sings of days not yet begun,
of battles won, of rising sun.
It does not speak in mortal tongue …
its language is both old and young.
A single note, yet full of lore,
it knows what came, and what’s in store.
A garden gate swings open wide,
the Bridegroom waits, the watchmen cry.
The trumpet’s voice: a breath, a flame,
that dares to speak the holy Name.
So hush now… listen, let it ring.
The sound you hear is summoning.
Not just a note, but a reply:
Your soul remembers how to fly.
