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Poem

Don’t wait for a trumpet when the breath in your lungs is already shouting.
Don’t wait for a sky to tear when your soul is already trembling.
The signs are not in the clouds, they’re in your compromise.
The delay is not His it’s yours.

You think you’ve got time?
You think your youth is a shield?
You gamble eternity on comfort,
Choke on pleasure,
And call it freedom.
But you’re a prisoner and the chains are your choices.
Every ignored conviction another lock.
Every rejected whisper another nail.

God is not far.
He’s not sleeping.
He’s not pacing Heaven wondering when to show up.
He’s here.
And you’ve seen Him
in the warning you brushed off,
in the tears that hit your pillow when no one else saw,
in the voice that said turn around and you didn’t.

You think grace will beg you forever?
You think the Lamb stays silent forever?
No.
There’s an end to invitation.
There’s a limit to mercy.
And when it closes, it closes like a tomb.

This world won’t save you.
Not your pastor.
Not your playlist.
Not your "Christian aesthetic."
God ain't coming for your Sunday posts,
He's coming for fire.

So light it now.
Even if you have to burn the old you to do it.
Cut the sin out like it’s cancer.
Because it is.
You don’t play with what’s trying to kill you.
You don’t flirt with what’s trying to damn you.

Wake up.
Repent loud.
Love hard.
Live holy.
And stop pretending you can hold God in one hand
And hell in the other.

This is your call.
Not tomorrow.
Now.
Because the breath in your lungs is grace.
And the next one is not promised.

Christ is here.
And He’s not knocking forever.
Open.
Or be ready when He breaks the door down.

Amen.

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