The Dawn Of The Trumpet

He will not come to judge the nations yet,
nor place His feet on dust,
He will come into the upper air
to gather those who trust.

No sword will flash, no horse descend,
no armies fill the sky—
only a sound that breaks the grave
and teaches death to rise.

A trumpet, not for battle cry,
but for the chosen few,
to wake the ones who fell asleep
still sealed and still made new.

The dead in Christ will rise first,
not hurried, not afraid,
their names already written
before their bones were laid.

And we who breathe will feel it then—
the pull we always knew,
a lifting not by strength of flesh
but by a promise true.

Not every eye will see Him then,
not every heart will know,
the world will keep its busy pace
while heaven steals the show.

He will split the eastern silence wide,
but not to touch the ground,
only to meet His hidden bride
where air and glory sound.

No crown, no throne, no judging seat,
just meeting in the sky—
the first reunion of the Lamb
and those He taught to die.

Keep your lamps trimmed and burning
and hearts yet set ablaze
with ache and yearning—

For before He comes A Fiery King
before white horses rides,
He comes to claim the Bride who waited
Watching through the night.