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Before I let you read a word of this poem, or watch the recording of me reading it, I want to acknowledge that this is NOT my work entirely.

I have been practicing epic poems for about a year, after reading The Odyssey and being inspired. And poetry in general, I’ve been writing substantially longer. In fact, its one of my favorite mediums. For instance, I’m working on one right now, behind the scenes, that what will be a summary of the book of Romans. It’s working title is The Romansiad. I have no timeline on it, and plan to write it entirely on my own.

Anyway, much of this work is mine (I would venture about 80%), but I used AI throughout (ChatGPT and Claude) when I labored and couldn’t find the right word or turn of phrase. And, I can say for certain that it is actually better for it. Maybe I’m not, but the poem is.

I started this around Halloween, and wanted this to be done by Easter, but I just wouldn’t have made it without help from artificial means. I have entirely too many other irons in the fire to spend the time I needed to in order to get it done.

So, please enjoy the poem, because I think it turned out incredible, but know that it is not entirely my work, and it would be a lie to claim it as such.

BOOK I: THE INVOCATION AND THE DAWN OF VICTORY

Speak, O Holy Spirit, of that most glorious Day supreme,
When Christ the King, the Lion-hearted Lord,
Rose terrible and beautiful as a storm-crowned mountain peak
That splits the eastern sky with shafts of gold!
Tell of the Day that Death himself could not devour,
When Hell’s dark gates groaned backward on their hinges,
And all the principalities of shadow
Fled howling to their caverns deep and lightless.

From depths of time’s foundation, speak the tale
Of how the Ancient of Days ordained this triumph,
Before the morning stars sang songs together,
Before the sons of God shouted for joy.
In counsel held within the courts of heaven,
The Trinity conspired for man’s salvation.
The Father’s love, the Son’s obedience,
The Spirit’s power converging in one purpose.

As when the great sea-eagle, lord of tempests,
Spreads wide his wings above the wine-dark waters,
And every lesser bird falls mute before him.
So Christ the Victor-King, the Death-destroyer,
Unfurls His banner white as driven snow,
White as the peaks of mountains touched by starlight,
Above the battlefield of mortal time,
Where saints and sinners wage eternal warfare.

BOOK II: THE ANCIENT PROPHECIES FULFILLED

Long had the prophets sung of this bright morning,
When righteousness would shine forth like the dawn,
When justice would rain down from heaven’s storehouse,
And mercy kiss the earth with lips of peace.
Isaiah saw Him, wounded for transgressions,
Yet rising up to justify the many.
David beheld Him sitting at God’s right hand,
Till all His enemies become His footstool.

The seers of old, with eyes like burning coals,
Gazed through the mists of centuries unborn
And saw this Day approaching like a warrior
In garments dipped in blood, yet white as snow.
They heard the voice of one crying in the wilderness:
“Prepare ye the way of the Lord of Hosts!”
They felt the earth shake at His resurrection,
The veil of the temple torn from top to bottom.

O Daniel! Your vision of the Son of Man
Coming with clouds of glory now is here!
O Ezekiel! The valley of dry bones
Lives again in this Day of holy power!
The wheel within the wheel spins ever onward,
The living creatures cry “Holy! Holy! Holy!”
While cherubim and seraphim in chorus
Proclaim the glory of the risen Lamb.

BOOK III: THE COSMIC BATTLE

But first, the conflict! Oh, what mighty warfare
Raged in the heavens when the Prince of Peace
Descended to the realm of death and darkness
To bind the strong man in his own domain!
The dragon, that old serpent called the devil,
Marshaled his hosts for this final struggle,
While Michael and his angels stood preparing
To cast the accuser from his throne of lies.

As when two armies meet on plains of battle,
And earth trembles beneath the weight of war,
And bronze rings out on bronze with fearsome clamor,
And heroes clash like gods among the fray,
So in the spiritual realms invisible
The forces of light and darkness met in combat,
With Christ the Champion wielding Truth and Justice
Against the powers of hell and death combined.

Three days the battle raged in deepest silence,
While faithful women kept their vigil watch,
And disciples hid in rooms with doors fast barred,
Not knowing that their King fought on alone.
But on the third day, oh, what shouts of triumph!
What songs of victory filled the morning air!
The stone rolled back, the guards fell down like dead men,
And Christ stepped forth, the Conqueror of the grave!

BOOK IV: THE SUMMONING OF THE HOST

Hark! From His throne room bright as burnished bronze,
Where seraphim with six wings veil their faces,
The Captain of the hosts of righteousness
Sounds forth His trumpet call across the ages:
“Come forth, My knights! My sworn and faithful vassals!
You who have drunk deep from the cup of sorrow,
You who have walked the narrow way of honor,
Come forth and feast within My father’s fortress!”

As when a king in ancient days of glory
Would sound the horn of war from castle tower,
And from a thousand villages and hamlets
His liegemen came with sword and shield and banner,
So from the ends of earth and depths of ocean,
From mountain halls and valleys green and golden,
The saints come marching to their Lord’s assembly,
Their voices lifted like the sound of waters.

See how they come! The martyrs crowned with glory,
Who washed their robes in blood of the Lamb slain.
The confessors who stood when others faltered,
The virgins following wherever He may lead.
Patriarchs and prophets, apostles and evangelists,
Doctors and fathers of the church triumphant,
All streaming to the banner of their Captain,
All eager for the battle and the feast.

From every tribe and nation, tongue and people,
They gather at the summons of their King.
The Scythian and barbarian are welcome,
The bond and free united in His service.
No earthly distinction matters in this army,
All are one in Christ, the great Commander,
All sworn to serve until the final victory,
All destined for the crown that does not fade.

BOOK V: THE FORTRESS IN TIME

Behold! What architect but God Almighty
Could carve a fortress from the stuff of time?
What mason but the Master of all masters
Could set its stones with mortar made of mercy?
Here stands the Day, immovable as mountains,
Imperishable as the starry heavens,
A sanctuary built of holy hours,
Where weary souls find rest and warriors respite.

The foundations of this fortress reach down deep
To the beginning of the world’s creation,
When God rested from His works of wonder
And blessed the seventh day and made it holy.
The walls rise high with sacraments for mortar—
Baptism and communion, word and prayer—
While at the gates stand angels with bright swords
To guard the peace that passes understanding.

Within these walls, what wonders meet the eye!
Altars of gold where incense ever rises,
Tables spread with bread and wine of heaven,
Fountains flowing with the water of life.
Here mercy and truth have kissed each other,
Here righteousness and peace embrace with joy,
Here God walks with His people in the cool
Of evening, as in Eden’s blessed garden.

The bells ring out like hammers on an anvil
Where mighty smiths forge weapons for the faithful—
Each chime a sword-stroke, each resounding peal
A battle-cry that echoes through the ages.
Let tyrants rage and let the nations tremble!
Let empires rise and crumble into dust!
The Lord’s Day stands, a tower strong and stately,
When all else fails, this Day shall not be shaken.

BOOK VI: THE HOLY WAR DECLARED

This is no truce with Satan’s dark dominion,
No parley with the forces of despair!
This Day declares eternal war against
The princes of the air and death’s grim captain.
Here Christian knights put on the whole armor,
Here warriors sharpen blades of living Scripture,
Here soldiers of the cross renew their oath
To Him who conquered hell and death and darkness.

Behold the armor that the faithful wear!
The belt of truth girds up their loins for action,
The breastplate of righteousness guards their hearts,
Their feet are shod with peace’s preparation.
Above all, faith’s great shield deflects the arrows
That Satan shoots in volleys from his bow,
While salvation’s helmet guards their heads,
And Spirit’s sword cuts through deception’s web.

As when great armies meet on plains of battle,
And bronze clashes on bronze with fearsome clamor,
And heroes stride like gods among the melee—
So on this Day the church militant rises,
With Christ their Champion leading the vanguard,
His cross the banner streaming in the wind,
His Name their war-cry echoing like thunder
Across the field where good and evil clash.

O followers of the Lamb! Prepare for battle!
The enemy comes with roaring like a lion,
Seeking whom he may devour and destroy.
But greater is He that is within you
Than he that rules this world of sin and sorrow.
Stand fast therefore, with loins girded about
With truth, and put on righteousness like armor,
And lift the shield of faith above your heads!

BOOK VII: THE SACRED MYSTERIES

But soft! What gentle music fills the air?
What sweet aroma rises from the altar?
The trumpets cease their martial call to arms,
And softer strains invite the soul to worship.
For this is not alone a day of warfare,
But also of the mysteries most sacred,
Where Christ comes down in bread and wine to meet
His people in communion sweet and holy.

Here is the marriage supper of the Lamb,
The feast that prophets longed to see with eyes.
Here heaven stoops to earth in condescension,
And earth ascends to heaven in the elements.
The bread, once grain that died in fertile ground,
Now speaks of Him who died and rose again.
The wine, once grapes that hung upon the vine,
Reminds us of His blood shed for our sins.

As when a bridegroom comes to claim his bride,
And all the wedding guests rejoice with singing,
And harps and timbrels sound throughout the hall,
And wine flows freely at the marriage feast—
So Christ comes to His church, His spotless bride,
Adorned in righteousness like wedding garments,
To celebrate their union mystical
In sacraments that earth and heaven join.

O taste and see that the Lord is good!
His mercy endures forever and a day!
The bread of angels becomes food for mortals,
The cup of blessing overflows with grace.
Here past and future meet in timeless moment,
Here finite souls touch the Infinite,
Here mortal lips receive immortal food,
And death gives way to life that never ends.

BOOK VIII: THE FEAST OF VICTORY

Come then, ye battle-weary sons of valor!
Lay down your arms and sit at royal table!
Here bread is broken, white as mountain snow,
And wine flows red as sunset on the ocean.
This is the feast that prophets longed to witness,
The marriage supper of the Lamb triumphant,
Where kings and peasants, shepherds, saints, and sages
Sit side by side in fellowship eternal.

What joy fills every heart! What songs arise!
The harps of gold strike melodies celestial,
While voices blend in harmonies of praise
That make the very heavens ring with glory.
Here David tunes his harp to play for Jesus,
Here Mary sings her Magnificat anew,
Here Paul proclaims the mystery of godliness,
Here John beholds the Lamb upon the throne.

Let psalms ascend like incense to the heavens!
Let hymns ring out like trumpets bright and golden!
For He who was, and is, and is to come
Has made this Day the crown of all creation.
No power in heaven or earth or under earth
Can dim its glory or defeat its purpose—
The Lord’s Day stands, forever and eternal,
The Day of Days, when Christ the King is King!

The feast continues through the endless ages,
Each Sunday but a foretaste of the glory
That waits for those who love His appearing,
When time shall be no more, and death defeated.
Then every tear shall be wiped from every eye,
And pain and sorrow flee away forever,
And God Himself shall dwell among His people,
And they shall see His face and bear His Name.

BOOK IX: THE ETERNAL VICTORY

But hark! What sound disturbs the peaceful feast?
What trumpet blast echoes from distant hills?
It is the final trumpet, long awaited,
The sound that wakes the dead and changes all!
For lo! The Lord Himself descends from heaven
With shout of triumph and with voice of archangel,
And every eye shall see Him as He is,
The King of Kings and Lord of Lords supreme!

Then shall the Day of Days reach full completion,
When Sunday shall no longer mark the weeks,
But merge into the endless, perfect Day
Where Christ reigns King of an eternal realm.
The Lord’s Day then shall be not one in seven,
But all in all, the Day that never ends,
Where saints and angels sing the song of Moses
And of the Lamb upon His throne of grace.

No sun or moon shall light that glorious City,
For Christ Himself shall be its light and lamp.
No temple shall be needed in that place,
For God and the Lamb are its temple true.
The nations shall walk in its glorious light,
And kings bring their honor and glory there,
While from the throne flows the river of life,
And trees of healing line its crystal banks.

O glorious consummation! O blessed hope!
When faith gives way to sight, and hope to having,
And love alone remains of the three,
The greatest gift, forever and forever!
Then every tribe and tongue and people, nation,
Shall bow before the throne and sing the song:
“Worthy is the Lamb who was slain to receive
Power and riches, wisdom, strength, and honor!”

EPILOGUE: THE SONG THAT NEVER ENDS

So ends the tale of that most holy Day
When Christ our King displays His royal glory.
Let bards in ages yet to come take up
This song of triumph, victory, and honor.
For while the sun and moon endure their courses,
While stars keep watch above the sleeping earth,
The Lord’s Day shall remain, a mighty fortress,
The Day of Christ, imperishable, crowned!

Let every generation learn this story,
Let children’s children sing this song of praise.
Let aged saints find comfort in its verses,
Let youth be stirred to noble deeds and ways.
For this is more than poem or decoration—
This is the truth that sets the captive free,
The gospel written in heroic measures, The song of victory for eternity!

Strike up, ye harps! Sound forth, ye trumpets golden!
Let all creation join the mighty chorus!
The Lord’s Day stands, magnificent, beholden
To none but Christ, who reigns in triumph o’er us!

Deus vult! Thus speaks the eternal Word!
The Day of the King shall have no end!
Let earth and heaven praise the risen Lord!
His victory song shall through all ages blend!

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Ink like a river, begins flowing where no map has drawn a course, 
Words come unbidden, laughing, unstoppable, fierce and free. 
They scatter silence, breaking its hold with a sudden force, 
And blaze like dawn arising to flood what was dark in me. 

Here in the chamber sacred between what is thought and said, 
The weight I carried wordless dissolves and is borne away. 
The ache beneath my ribs finds a voice where it once was dead, 
And truth takes root on pages that grant it the right to stay. 

Each sentence builds a bridge over chasms of mute despair, 
Each paragraph a room where the unspoken comes to rest. 
The cursor blinks in patience, a watchman who keeps me there, 
Till words like bread are risen and placed on the table blessed. 

And oh, the final silence when last line is set in place, 
The threads once tangled woven together in whole design. 
The burden lifted, silence transfigured by hymn and grace, 
For God has turned to song what was broken and frail in mine.

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You called it rage.
You called it hate.
You called it unfit
For civilized men
In curated suits,
With curated smiles.

But I know what this is.
This fire,
This shaking in my ribs.
It is not anger.
It is not pride.
It is not vengeance.

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O Lord of Hosts,
Set me on the wall You have built.
Fix my feet where You station Your servants,
And make my frame unshakeable in the day of testing.

Give me …

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Before You Read

Sit up. Please. Yes, right now. Straighten your back. Let the phone rest face-down beside you (unless you’re reading this on it). Let the glow dim. Let the hum fade.

Take a breath deep …

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Refer a friend

I walk among pillars I did not raise,
marble echoing with ancient praise.
Milton, Virgil, Homer—their thunder fills these halls,
and my small syllables crumble, fall.
Their voices carved in stone remain,
while mine are whispers, small refrain.

I was not trained in Athens’ school,
no Latin tongue, no rhetoric’s rule.
No master carved their wisdom in my bones,
I came late, dusty, self-taught, alone.
I scribbled by the fire when others slept,
while classical tradition others kept.

Yet still, I write, still dare to speak,
though unrefined, unpolished, weak.

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Once dead in …

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The heavens are not silent.
They declare the glory of God.¹
The skies pour out speech,
Day after day, night after night² —
Psalm Nineteen, alive and blazin…

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Dead.
Not sick, not stumbling, not weak —
Dead.
Children of wrath,
Graves dressed up in flesh and pride,
Walking corpses following the course of this world.
We obeyed the prince of the power of the a…

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