I saw you there, Beloved. You were standing at the edge of eternity. The veil was thin. The air trembled. You were longing, listening, and waiting for something beyond the ordinary. You were searching for a sound not made by man but born of glory.
And then, the heavens opened.
I beheld a throne, radiant and burning with holiness. In the right hand of the One seated there was a scroll. It was sealed seven times, written on the front and back. The scroll was not forgotten. It had not been lost. It had always been there, waiting for the one who would be found worthy.
A mighty angel called out with a voice that shook heaven and earth. “WHO IS WORTHY TO OPEN THE SCROLL AND BREAK ITS SEALS?”
But no one moved. Not in heaven. Not on earth. Not beneath the earth. The cry echoed without answer.
And I wept.
I wept not because God had failed, but because no man had prevailed. I wept because the story seemed locked, and the plan seemed sealed. I wept because I too have stood in places where the scroll was visible, but not yet opened.
But then
One of the elders spoke to me. “Do not weep. Look closely.”
I turned and I saw.
There, between the throne and the elders, stood a Lamb. He was not fallen, but standing. He was not untouched, but wounded. The scars told the story. He had been slain, yet now lived. He bore seven horns, which is perfect power, and seven eyes, which is perfect vision. He was filled with the fullness of the Spirit of God.
He stepped forward.
And He took the scroll.
When He did, worship broke out like a storm.
The living creatures fell. The elders dropped to their faces. Harps began to resound, and golden bowls overflowed with incense. These were the prayers of the saints. A new song rose like fire, as if heaven itself had been holding its breath.
“Worthy are You to take the scroll and to open its seals. For You were slain, and with Your blood You purchased people for God from every tribe, language, people, and nation.” (Revelation 5:9, AMP)
And now, Beloved
A holy cry rises at sunset—the shofar sounds, declaring to heaven and earth: this world belongs to the Lord.
It is time.
Time to step in. Time to cast off the dust of the day, the weight of your worries, and the whispers of shame. Hang them at the door. Lay them at the altar. Come just as you are. You do not need to be polished or perfect. You only need to be hungry.
Come and seek His face.
The One whom your soul longs for is here. Yeshua the Lamb of God is present. He has been found worthy. He has approached the throne. Heaven is trembling, for the Lamb is ready to take it.
As you step into worship, everything shifts.
Worship does not build gradually.
It erupts.
It rises like thunder, like fire, like incense. The creatures cry out again. The elders fall again. And your voice joins the sound that was, and is, and is to come.
Heaven waits for your worship.
The golden bowls are filled with your prayers. The angels echo your surrender. The Lamb, who stands at the center of it all, receives what only you can give.
Your song.
Let it rise now.
Let every breath proclaim His worth. Let your worship break the silence. Let your heart become the altar. Because He was slain for you. Because He has been found worthy. Because the scroll awaits His hand. Because only He is worthy.
“To Him who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb be blessing and honor and glory and dominion forever and ever.” (Revelation 5:13, AMP)
Beloved, we must return to what is written. The body of Messiah is not divided, though we have made it so. We build walls of preference and call them doctrine. We form camps and name them after men. Some say, “I follow Paul,” and others, “I follow Apollos,” or “I follow Cephas,” or even, “I follow Christ.” But the Apostle cries out to the Corinthian church—and to us—“Has Christ been divided?” (1 Corinthians 1:12–13, NASB). The Gospel was never meant to be fractured. The cross was not split in pieces. The blood of Yeshua was poured out for one Bride, one Body, one eternal covenant people.
Yet we gather under banners that exalt style, tradition, and personality instead of exalting the Lamb. We have preferred comfort to consecration, familiarity to fellowship, and our stream to the fullness of the river. But the Spirit of the Lord calls out even now: There is one body and one Spirit, just as also you were called in one hope of your calling; one Lord, one faith, one baptism, one God and Father of all who is over all and through all and in all(Ephesians 4:4–6, NASB).
This is not a call to shallow compromise. It is a call to holy alignment. Unity does not mean erasing the truth. Unity means we bow to the truth together. We submit not to each other’s opinions but to the Word of God, which remains forever. The Gospel is not about what we prefer. It is about what God has declared. It is time to return to the authority of Scripture, the Lordship of Yeshua, and the fellowship of the Spirit.
Yeshua is walking among the lampstands (Revelation 1:12–13). He sees every church, every pulpit, every prayer meeting. His eyes are like flames of fire, and He is examining the heart of His Bride. What does He find? Division? Competition? Suspicion? We are quick to judge others who do not worship like us, pray like us, teach like us—but are we so sure we are the standard? Beloved, the standard is Yeshua. And He is calling for oneness—not sameness, but unity born of the Spirit.
Before He went to the cross, our Lord prayed: “I am not asking on behalf of these alone, but also for those who believe in Me through their word, that they may all be one; just as You, Father, are in Me, and I in You, that they also may be in Us, so that the world may believe that You sent Me” (John 17:20–21, NASB). This is not a secondary issue. Our oneness is part of our witness. A divided Church cannot reveal a united Savior.
And yet, even now, revival is knocking. The Spirit is brooding over the deep waters again. But revival will not rest on a scattered Bride. It will rest where there is repentance, humility, and unity. It will rest on a people who say, “Not to us, O LORD, not to us, but to Your name give glory” (Psalm 115:1, NASB). Revival begins when the Church stops building its own towers and begins rebuilding the altar. It begins when we gather not around personalities, but around the Person of Yeshua.
Let us tear down the walls. Let the elders reach across the aisle. Let pastors seek each other out. Let worshipers find common ground in the holiness of God. Let the Church be one again. The hour is late. The return of the King is near. He is not coming for many brides—He is coming for one. He is not coming for denominations—He is coming for disciples.
And so we cry out: Come, Lord Yeshua. Find us ready. One heart. One voice. One faith. One Bride made pure by Your Word.
A community gathered in Spirit-led worship, encircling the fire—symbol of God’s presence—each heart lifted in surrender and awe before the Lord.
Prayer:
Abba Father, we come before You as one people in need of mercy. Forgive us for building altars to men instead of laying ourselves down at Yours. We have divided where You have called us to unite, we have exalted our streams above Your river, and we have guarded our preferences more fiercely than Your Word.
But today we turn. Today we lay down our pride, our names, our camps. We cry out for the unity that only comes by Your Spirit. Make us one, O God, even as You and Yeshua are One. Let the walls crumble. Let the fire fall. Let the sound of true repentance rise from every corner of Your Church.
Walk among us again, King of Glory. Speak to every lampstand. Revive what is dying. Rebuke what is false. Restore what has been broken. We long for the day when every tongue will confess that Yeshua is Lord. Until then, let us live as one body—holy, pure, and waiting for the sound of the trumpet.
In the name of the Lamb who was slain and lives forever,
Amen.
O Shepherd of the scattered fold, gather now Your holy flame, Call the tribes from every land, one Bride to bear Your name. No more boasting, no more pride, no more thrones of man, Let Your Word be lifted high across the broken span. In the fire of Your presence, melt our hearts as one— Until all the Church together cries, “Come, Lord Yeshua, come!”
Believers gathered in deep intercessory prayer, lifting silent groanings before God, surrounded by symbols of His covenant promises.
A Vision: When the Lord Comes to Tear Down the Walls
It was not in a cathedral. It was not on a stage. It was in a forgotten upper room in the back of a crumbling church—plaster peeling, carpet torn, a single lightbulb swaying overhead. The world outside mocked their weakness. Even other believers had stopped attending. But inside, seven saints knelt on the floor, faces to the dust, soaking the threadbare rug with their tears. No agenda. No performance. Just hunger. “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be satisfied” (Matthew 5:6, NASB).
They whispered no eloquent prayers. They groaned. They wept. They called upon the Name above all names, and they would not rise until He came. “Yet even now,” declares the Lord, “Return to Me with all your heart, and with fasting, weeping, and mourning” (Joel 2:12, NASB). It was not loud, but it was deep—deeper than music, deeper than preaching, deeper than structure. It was desperation.
And then, suddenly, without warning or cue, He came.
Not the Christ of paintings or songs. Not the sanitized Savior we’ve hung on sanctuary walls. This was the King of kings, “clothed with a robe dipped in blood, and His name is called The Word of God” (Revelation 19:13, NASB). His eyes burned like fire. His voice thundered like many waters (Revelation 1:14–15). He did not knock. He tore the heavens open (Isaiah 64:1). The room shook violently—but not from earthquake—it was glory.
The walls groaned, trembled, then crumbled. Not just in that upper room, but across the land. Church buildings across cities felt it: pulpits split, stained glass shattered, pride cracked open. The Lord had come—not to decorate—but to overthrow.“See, I am doing something new… I will even make a roadway in the wilderness, rivers in the desert” (Isaiah 43:19, NASB).
What poured in was not chaos, but holiness. Not confusion, but cleansing fire. His feet touched the floor where their tears had fallen, and it turned to gold like the streets of heaven (Revelation 21:21). Their sobs became songs. Their weariness became wings. “Those who wait for the Lord will gain new strength; they will mount up with wings like eagles” (Isaiah 40:31, NASB).
As they looked up, their eyes were opened—and they saw Him walking not only in their midst but among the lampstands of the earth (Revelation 1:13). One lifted hand from the Lord, and across oceans and time zones, house churches caught flame. Sanctuaries became sanctified. Altars were rebuilt. Mega churches fell to their knees. Bishops repented. Teenagers prophesied. Denominational names dissolved in the fire. “The glory of the Lord will be revealed, and all flesh will see it together” (Isaiah 40:5, NASB).
One cry rose from every tongue and tribe: “Worthy is the Lamb!” (Revelation 5:12).
Angels rushed to and fro—reaping, healing, anointing (Hebrews 1:14). Dreams flooded hearts. The sick leapt from hospital beds (Luke 7:22). Families reconciled in living rooms. The fire touched Asia, Africa, Europe, the Americas, islands and prisons. One Spirit. One Body. One Lord. “Until we all attain to the unity of the faith… to a mature man, to the measure of the stature which belongs to the fullness of Christ” (Ephesians 4:13, NASB).
And He smiled—not because they were perfect—but because they were yielded. “To this one I will look, to him who is humble and contrite of spirit, and who trembles at My word”(Isaiah 66:2, NASB).
In the sky, the clouds pulsed with light. The earth itself seemed to bow. Creation groaned—but this time not in pain, but in expectation. “For the anxious longing of the creation waits eagerly for the revealing of the sons of God” (Romans 8:19, NASB). The final harvest had begun. Not a revival of man’s making, but a visitation of the Holy One. Not revival to extend our comforts, but revival to gather the Bride. “Behold, the Judge is standing right at the door” (James 5:9, NASB).
It began not with fanfare, but with tears. Not in crowds, but in a room.
And the sound of that weeping rose like incense (Revelation 5:8)…
Until He came—and everything changed.
Let every heart tremble. Let every church listen.
He is not coming to bless our divisions. He is coming to burn them down.
And when He does, may He find us low… seeking His face… ready.
Maranatha. Come, Lord Jesus, come. This is not just a prayer for the end; it is the deep longing of a Bride yearning for her Bridegroom. The phrase “Maranatha Come Lord Jesus Come” has been whispered in the catacombs, shouted through the fields of revival, and wept in hidden places of persecution and prayer. Every generation that has truly known Yeshua has joined in this ancient cry, echoing the words that close the book of Revelation: “Come, Lord Jesus” (Revelation 22:20 NASB).
And yet, He waits.
Why?
“The Lord does not delay [as though He were unable to act] and is not slow about His promise, as some count slowness, but is [extraordinarily] patient toward you, not wishing for any to perish but for all to come to repentance” (2 Peter 3:9 AMP).
This is not slowness. It is divine mercy. He delays not from hesitation, but from love. Every moment the trumpet is withheld, another soul finds mercy. Every hour He waits, another broken heart returns home. We may cry “Maranatha Come Lord Jesus Come” with passion and urgency, but God cries out for the nations still to be saved.
The Gospel Must Reach Every People Group
Yeshua’s words in Matthew 24:14 remain clear: “This gospel of the kingdom shall be preached in the whole world as a testimony to all the nations, and then the end will come”(NASB). This truth drives missionaries into dangerous places and fuels Bible translation efforts in the most remote corners of the earth. Some believe that once every unreached people group hears the Gospel, the Lord will return.
This theory holds weight. For the Lamb who was slain deserves worship from every tribe and tongue. The great commission is not optional—it is the heartbeat of the Church. Yet we must remember that many generations before us believed their time was the final hour. The apostles in Jerusalem, the reformers in Europe, the revivalists in America—they all cried “Maranatha Come Lord Jesus Come,” and they were right to do so. The time has always been urgent.
But only the Father knows the hour.
Only the Father Knows the Day and Hour
“But of that day and hour no one knows, not even the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but the Father alone” (Matthew 24:36 NASB). Even now, the Son—worthy to open the seals—awaits the Father’s word. Heaven is ready. The saints cry out. Creation groans. But the skies will not split by human calculation or desperation. The time is not revealed to satisfy curiosity, but to awaken holy preparation.
This truth should sober us. It should also set us free from fruitless speculation. We are not called to predict—we are called to prepare. We do not wait in idleness, but in readiness. We do not guess—we burn. The cry “Maranatha Come Lord Jesus Come” is more than a prophecy; it is a posture of the heart.
A Vision of Global Revival
{Don Francisco Style from Vision of the Valley}
Some believe that before Yeshua returns, the earth will experience the greatest revival in history. Picture it: A Shepherd walks through valleys, calling His sheep by name. His presence heals the brokenhearted and restores the blind. Then, others like Him rise—not famous or noble, but filled with the same fire of love. They go out into the fields and mountains, gathering the wounded and bringing them home.
They lead the flock to green pastures and still waters. They stand guard against the darkness. They speak one common Word the sheep recognize—and they follow.
The news spreads from city to village, from street to street: Heaven has come down.Millions who had long been betrayed by false promises begin to trust again. The hearts of stone become hearts of flesh. A Bride once drowsy and distracted is now wide awake. And then the trumpet sounds. The Bride is ready.
Why the Delay Is Also the Preparation
Let us not miss the greater mystery: We are the reason for the delay. But we are also the means of the preparation. The same Church that cries out for His return is also the Church being sanctified and sent. The Bridegroom delays, not because He is absent, but because He is making us ready.
Beloved, if you truly say “Maranatha Come Lord Jesus Come,” then live like it. Let every word, every moment, every breath testify to His worthiness. Burn for Him. Preach the Gospel. Live holy. Forgive quickly. Love deeply. The Bridegroom is coming. But He waits for a pure and prepared Bride.
I heard a voice in twilight Like thunder soft with grace, It whispered through the harvest fields, And shone on every face.
The Shepherd’s feet were moving, The winds began to blow, And every heart that waited Could feel the trumpet’s glow.
Prayer
Abba, we lift up the cry of the ages: Maranatha Come Lord Yeshua Come. Thank You for Your mercy that has waited long enough to save us. Teach us to carry the weight of Your delay not with frustration but with faith. Let us be part of the final harvest. Let us speak the Gospel with boldness and love. Awaken Your Bride. Purify us. And when the last soul has come and the final cry has risen, speak the word—and come for us. We are ready. Amen.
In the right hand of the One seated upon the throne, a scroll. Rolled tight. Written within and without. Sealed with seven unbroken seals. The silence in the throne room was not absence—it was weight. It was the hush of judgment poised to fall. The hush before the voice of God shakes the heavens once more.
And then a strong angel, shining like fire, cried out with a voice that shattered the stillness:
“Who is worthy to open the scroll and break its seals?”
Not who is willing—who is worthy?
His voice did not stop at the walls of heaven. It pierced into the earth, beneath the earth, through the ages. The question resounded into every grave, every throne, every altar, every idol. Who has the authority to unlock the will of God? Who has conquered death, sin, and every nation’s pride?
And no one answered.
Not one in heaven—not Gabriel, not Moses, not David, not any righteous soul of old.
Not one on the earth—not priest, prophet, king, or martyr.
Not one beneath it—not Abraham, not Elijah, not even the cherub who guarded Eden’s gate.
And I wept.
John’s tears were mine. They were yours. They were the sobs of a world waiting for justice, aching for redemption. Because if the scroll remains sealed, then the kingdom remains delayed. The wicked go unpunished. The righteous go unheard. The promise remains unread. And the plan of God seems paused.
But then—a voice.
Not from the angel. Not from the throne. From one of the elders. He leaned close and whispered with thunder clothed in comfort:
“Do not weep. Look—Behold! The Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has overcome. He is able to open the scroll and break its seven seals.”
Hope surged.
I turned. But I did not see a lion—not yet. I saw a Lamb. Standing as if slain. Still bearing wounds that speak louder than thunder. The fire of glory did not erase the scars. No—He kept them. Because it was not brute force that won the right to break the seals. It was blood. It was surrender. It was the eternal sacrifice of Yeshua, the Lamb of God.
He stepped forward.
The scroll did not resist His hand. The Father did not hesitate. The heavens did not delay. The Lamb took the scroll—the very testament of God’s justice and mercy, sealed by the hand of El Shaddai—and when He did, heaven erupted.
Angels bowed. Elders fell. Creatures cried. A new song rang out from every realm:
“Worthy are You to take the scroll and to break its seals, for You were slain, and with Your blood You purchased people for God from every tribe and language and people and nation.”
This is not mythology. This is not metaphor. This is the divine courtroom where the end of the age begins.
Yeshua is not waiting for permission—He is waiting for the appointed moment. The scroll is still in His hand. The seals are still unbroken. But heaven is not idle. The Bride is being prepared. The nations are being warned. And soon—very soon—the first seal will open, and the plan of the Most High will thunder forth.
Beloved, if only we could hear the voice of the Father calling our name and singing love songs over us. The ache for identity, the hunger for belonging, the thirst to be known—all of it would be satisfied in one holy moment if our ears were tuned to heaven. And yet, that voice has spoken. It still speaks. On a high mountain bathed in light, God did not merely reveal glory—God told us He loves us.
The Transfiguration of Yeshua was not just a demonstration of divine power—it was the unveiling of divine affection. The Father’s voice did not thunder out commands or declarations of wrath. It sang. It affirmed. It invited. “This is My beloved Son, with whom I am well-pleased and delighted! Listen to Him!” (Matthew 17:5 AMP). These words echo with the joy of a Father who delights in His Son—and in all who are found in Him.
Yeshua brings Peter, James, and John up the mountain. Suddenly, the veil between earth and heaven lifts. His face shines like the sun, His garments radiate with holy light, and Moses and Elijah appear—representing the Law and the Prophets, both now converging in the One who fulfills them all. But even more powerful than what they see is what they hear.
While Peter speaks—still trying to manage glory—the Father interrupts from a bright cloud. He does not instruct them to build, sacrifice, or prove themselves. He says, “This is My beloved Son… Listen to Him.” This is the Father telling us what matters most. Not systems. Not striving. His Son. His love. His voice.
This is God telling us He loves us—by showing us the Son and bidding us to listen. His words are not sterile affirmations; they are love songs sung across the heavens. Just as Zephaniah prophesied:
“The Lord your God is in your midst… He will rejoice over you with joy… He will be quiet in His love… He will rejoice over you with shouts of joy.” (Zephaniah 3:17 AMP)
Do you hear it? The Father rejoicing—singing—over His people. Not with rebuke. Not with shame. But with joy. Just as He delighted in Yeshua before the disciples’ eyes, He delights in all who are hidden in Him. When the Father calls Yeshua “beloved,” He is opening the door for you and me to be beloved, too.
When the disciples fall in fear, Yeshua comes and touches them. He says, “Get up, and do not be afraid.” (Matthew 17:7 AMP). This is what love does. It lifts. It comforts. It silences fear. The One who shines with divine glory also stoops low to touch trembling hearts. He is the voice of the Father’s love made flesh.
And then they look up—and see no one but Jesus alone. This is the destination of love: all other voices, all other fears, all other distractions fade away. Only Yeshua remains. Only love remains. Because in Him, the fullness of the Father’s heart has been revealed.
He told us this long ago:
“You are precious in My sight… and I love you.” (Isaiah 43:4 AMP)
And again:
“I have loved you with an everlasting love; Therefore I have drawn you with lovingkindness.” (Jeremiah 31:3 AMP)
All of Scripture is God saying, “I love you.” But here, on the mountain, He says it by pointing to His Son—by inviting us to listen to Him, follow Him, and be found in Him.
And in case you still wonder if that voice could ever call your name, hear this:
“I am the good shepherd, and I know My own, and My own know Me… and I lay down My life for the sheep.” (John 10:14–15 NASB)
“My sheep listen to My voice… and they follow Me.” (John 10:27)
The voice that spoke from the cloud on that mountain is the same voice that now calls you by name. The same voice that sang over Yeshua now sings over you. Not because you are perfect. But because you are His.
Let the striving cease. Let the fear be silenced. Let every other name fade.
Only Jesus. Only love. Only the voice that calls you “Beloved.”
The heavens thundered, not with wrath but grace, Your voice sang joy across time and space. And in Your gaze, we found our name, Beloved, known, forever the same.
⸻
Prayer:
Abba Father, let us hear Your voice again. Let every barrier, every lie, and every fear be silenced by the sound of Your delight. Thank You for revealing Your heart through Yeshua. Thank You for calling Him beloved—and through Him, calling us Your children. Sing over us until our hearts believe it. Let us rise, unafraid, with Jesus alone in view. And may our ears never stop listening for the song You are still singing. In Yeshua’s name, amen.
When the Father sees you coming home, He doesn’t wait on the porch—He runs to embrace you. There is no place better. 🕊️
Vision:
A Vision: Called by Name and Held in Love
(in the style of Revelation)
Then I looked, and behold—a door standing open in the heavens. And the voice I had heard before, like the sound of many waters, called to me again, saying, “Come up here, beloved one, for I have longed for this hour.”
And immediately, I was in the Spirit—and I saw a vast throne, high and lifted up, and around it were storms of sapphire and emerald light. Lightning laced the sky like veins of glory, and thunder rolled like deep laughter through the foundations of the heavens.
Yet in the midst of all majesty, I saw a Lamb standing, radiant and slain, and He smiled at me. And then I heard the voice of the Ancient of Days, the Father of spirits, the One whose robe fills all eternity, saying: “Call him by name.”
And my name—yes, my name—was spoken aloud. Not with judgment, not in wrath, but in joy. It was like the song of a thousand rivers flowing into one—full, rushing, unmistakable. Every syllable dripped with affection. Every sound thundered with kindness. I felt it in my bones, as if my very soul had been waiting forever to be called just like that.
And then—O wonder of wonders—the King rose from His throne, and the cherubim fell silent. The song of the twenty-four elders paused. And He, the Father of Lights, opened His arms wide and said, “Come to Me, My child.”
With trembling knees, I drew near. But before I could fall before Him, He knelt down, and with hands as vast as galaxies yet gentle as morning mist, He lifted me. He gathered me to Himself, as a father lifts his little one after a long journey.
I was seated in His lap—yes, the lap of El Shaddai—and He held me close to His chest. His breath was like warm wind after rain, filled with the fragrance of myrrh and cedar and joy. I smelled the sweetness of heaven—honey and fire, incense and wildflowers from Eden’s garden.
And then He began to sing.
His voice wrapped around me like a weighted blanket of glory. The melody rose and fell like waves of peace. I felt each note in my skin, like sunlight on closed eyelids. His song had no beginning and no end—it was the music of forever, and it was for me.
He sang of when He formed me in the womb, how He traced every line of my face with delight. He sang of the days I wept and didn’t know He wept too. He sang of the battles I thought I lost and how His angels were guarding me the whole time. He sang of my future—full of purpose, full of presence, full of Him.
And I wept.
But He wiped every tear with His own hand, whispering, “I catch every one. I sing over every scar.”
As He sang, my eyelids grew heavy, not from sorrow, but from perfect rest. The kind of rest that only love can bring. The kind of sleep that Adam knew before the world was wounded. I rested my head against His chest and heard the rhythm of eternity—His heartbeat, steady and strong. I heard it call again: “Mine. Mine. Mine.”
The stars danced above me, and angels hushed their praises to listen.
And I, called by name, held in glory, fell asleep in the lap of God, cradled by the song of the Father.
When Jesus cried out, “It is finished,” He did not speak as a defeated man, but as the victorious Son of God. With that cry, the heavens shook and the earth trembled. The curtain in the temple was torn from top to bottom. The work of redemption was complete. But have you ever considered what it meant—not just for Jesus—but for the heart of the Father?
“For God so loved the world, that He gave His only Son, so that everyone who believes in Him will not perish, but have eternal life” (John 3:16, NASB). We quote this verse often, and rightly so. But we must pause and feel the weight of what it says: God gave His Son. He didn’t loan Him. He didn’t shield Him from suffering. He gave Him, fully, painfully, and completely.
This was no ordinary giving. This was the giving of the most precious, most holy, most beloved relationship in all eternity. The Father gave the Son, and the Spirit empowered the Son, that we might live. There was no division within the Trinity, no conflict of will. The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit were in perfect unity—a divine agreement made before the foundation of the world (1 Peter 1:19–20). Yet still, when Jesus hung upon that cross, the pain pierced more than flesh—it pierced the very heart of heaven.
Let’s not imagine the cross as a scene where Jesus suffers alone while the Father remains unmoved. That’s not the God of Scripture. God is love (1 John 4:8). And love suffers. “He who did not spare His own Son, but delivered Him over for us all…” (Romans 8:32, NASB). What kind of love is this, that the Father would give what was most dear to Him, knowing full well the price?
When Yeshua bore the full weight of our sin, something unfathomable occurred. “God made Him who knew no sin to be sin on our behalf, so that we might become the righteousness of God in Him” (2 Corinthians 5:21, NASB). That transaction required justice. And for a moment—just a moment—the Father turned His face away. Not in abandonment, but in holiness. Not in rejection, but in judgment. And in that moment, the cry of Jesus pierced the heavens: “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” (Matthew 27:46, NASB).
It’s not wrong to say that heaven felt that pain. God is not indifferent. He is not a cold judge. He is our Abba Father—tender, merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love (Psalm 103:8). When the spear was thrust into the side of the Son, the Father knew. When the thorns pierced His brow, the Father wept. This wasn’t just a human tragedy; it was a divine agony.
But it was also a divine triumph.
“It is finished” (John 19:30). That declaration meant more than the end of pain—it meant the beginning of grace. The wrath of God was satisfied. The debt of sin was paid in full. The way back to the Father was opened. Heaven did not just feel the pain—it rejoiced in the victory. And all of it—every step—was born out of love.
So now, beloved reader, you must ask yourself: What will you do with this love?
You were bought with a price (1 Corinthians 6:20). Not with silver or gold, but with the precious blood of Christ, a lamb without blemish (1 Peter 1:18–19). You are not your own. If the Father gave His Son for you, how can you live casually toward Him? If the Spirit groans for you, interceding with groanings too deep for words (Romans 8:26), how can you neglect so great a salvation?
You must not stand aloof from the cross. You must come near. Let it break your heart. Let it cleanse your sin. Let it reorient your entire life. Heaven felt the pain that redeemed you.Will you now live as though it costs you nothing?
Paul writes, “I have been crucified with Christ, and it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me” (Galatians 2:20, NASB). That’s the response of a heart that has seen the cross. Not religion. Not routine. Not a Sunday-only faith. But a life crucified, a life surrendered, a life aflame with gratitude.
Friend, if you have become numb to the cross, ask God to awaken your heart. Pray that you never grow comfortable with His sacrifice. Ask Him to show you what it meant—for the Son to suffer, for the Spirit to empower Him, for the Father to give Him up. That kind of love is not safe. It demands everything.
And yet, it gives everything.
Because of that pain felt in heaven, you now have peace. Because of the sorrow of the cross, you now have joy. Because of the silence of Saturday, you now have resurrection Sunday.
Do not waste this gift.
Come again to the foot of the cross. Let it wreck your pride. Let it shatter your excuses. And then rise, filled with the Holy Spirit, and live like someone who knows that God Himself bled for your freedom.
A Prayer for Today:
Father, thank You for the love that gave Your Son. Yeshua, thank You for the obedience that led You to the cross. Holy Spirit, thank You for staying with me and showing me the depth of this love. Awaken my heart again. Let me never treat lightly the agony of Calvary. Help me to live sacrificially, joyfully, and boldly in response to Your grace. Let my life reflect the weight of what was done for me. In Yeshua’s holy name, Amen.
Vision
In the stillness of heaven, the Father grieved. Light poured through eternity’s window, but His heart bore the weight of the cross.
In heaven, the atmosphere was weighty—thick with holy sorrow and glory. The golden streets, so often resounding with songs of praise, fell into a stillness that echoed through eternity. The scent of incense, always rising before the throne, was now mingled with something deeper—an aroma of sacrifice, like the offering of Isaac remembered and fulfilled. The air carried the tension of divine justice and eternal love colliding in one sacred moment.
The Father stood robed in radiant light, yet His expression bore the agony of a grieving King. His eyes—all-seeing—beheld His Son stretched on wood, blood mingling with dirt, and heard every cry, every mocking voice, every gasping breath. From His throne, He could feel the vibrations of the Roman hammer striking nails—each blow shaking the pillars of creation. The sounds of the earth—groaning, thundering, cracking—were not missed in heaven. The cry “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” pierced even the silence of eternity.
Around Him, the angelic host did not sing—they wept. Seraphim who had never ceased to cry “Holy” now covered their faces. The light of heaven shimmered with reverence and pain, like a storm forming just beneath the surface of peace. Thunder rumbled in the spirit realm. Flashes of glory stirred, restrained only by the will of the Father. All power stood clothed in stillness. The Son, robed in humility, did not summon the hosts of heaven though they waited—ten thousand times ten thousand, swords drawn in perfect obedience. The earth shook not from their advance, but from the trembling surrender of Love. Yeshua held back the storm, not for lack of strength, but for the joy set before Him.
All might, all angelic legions stood ready—yet none moved. Not a seraph’s wing stirred, not a cherub dared breathe without His command. He could have called them. But He chose the cross. Not because He was overpowered, but because He came to overpower death with mercy. This was the Lamb’s hour. This was the Father’s plan.
And still, the Father breathed in the moment, tasting the bitterness of wrath He would not withhold. His hands, sovereign and eternal, did not tremble—but His heart did feel. He knew the end from the beginning, but this was the cost. He felt the tear in the Son’s flesh as if it were His own. And He did not stop it. For love. For you.
Even in that pain, a fragrance began to rise—stronger than incense, sweeter than myrrh. The fragrance of redemption.It was the smell of blood that would wash nations, of obedience that would open graves, of a sacrifice that would welcome prodigals home. The throne shook not in fury, but in fulfillment. And somewhere, just beyond the veil, resurrection waited.
رأيت مشهدًا مهيبًا يملأه الرهبة والمجد. السماء اهتزت، والأرض تشققت عطشى، تتوق إلى مطر البرّ. جموع قلقة ملأت السهل تحتي، وقلوبهم منقسمة بين لذات هذا العالم ونداء القدير.
وأنت، أيها القارئ، هل شعرت بالعطش في أعماق روحك؟ هل وقفت بين مذبح الذات ومذبح التسليم؟
في وسط هذا التوتر، ظهر إيليا، مرتديًا لباسًا من شعر خشن وممتلئًا بغيرة متقدة. صوته دوّى كصوت مياه كثيرة:
“إلى متى أنتم مترددون بين رأيين؟ إن كان الرب هو الله، فاتبعوه، وإن كان البعل، فاتبعوه.”
(1 ملوك 18:21، الترجمة الموسعة)
الكلمة العبرية “פָּסַח” (pasach) تخترق النفس. تعني أن تترنح، أن تقفز جيئة وذهابًا بدون التزام. إنها نفس الكلمة التي وردت في سفر الخروج عندما عبر الرب فوق البيوت الملطخة بالدم، فأنقذ شعب العهد. كان من المفترض أن ترقص إسرائيل فرحًا بالعهد، لكنها كانت تتعثر في ترددها وانقسامها. تحدي إيليا كشف ليس فقط أصنامهم، بل ترددهم الداخلي أيضًا.
بدأ أنبياء البعل أولًا. أربعمئة وخمسون رجلاً رقصوا حول مذبحهم وهم يصرخون: “يا بعل، أجبنا!” ولكن عبادتهم تحوّلت إلى هستيريا. جرحوا أجسادهم، واندفعت منهم الدماء، ولكن لم يكن هناك صوت، ولا من يجيب. البعل طلب ألمًا، لكنه لم يُرسل نارًا. السماء بقيت صامتة.
ثم اقترب إيليا وأصلح مذبح الرب المُهدم باستخدام اثني عشر حجرًا—حجرًا لكل سبط من أسباط إسرائيل المرتبطة بالعهد. بلّل الذبيحة والخشب والساحة المحيطة بالماء. ثم صلّى:
“أيها الرب، إله إبراهيم وإسحاق وإسرائيل، ليُعلَم اليوم أنك أنت الله في إسرائيل”
(1 ملوك 18:36، الترجمة الموسعة)
وسقطت النار من السماء.
التهمت الذبيحة.
والحجارة.
والتراب.
والماء.
وسقط الشعب على وجوههم وصرخوا:
“الرب هو الله! الرب هو الله!”
(الآية 39)
لقد شُفي التردد بالنار المقدسة. وعادت رقصة العهد إلى مكانها الصحيح.
نفس الخيار يواجهنا اليوم
مثل إسرائيل القديمة، يتردد جيلنا. نتلاعب مع أصنام العصر—الذات، القوة، اللذة، المال—بينما ندّعي أننا في عهد مع إل شداي. مذبح الإيمان القومي مكسور. والمطر انقطع. ومع ذلك، نتساءل لماذا لا تسقط النار بعد الآن.
إن الرب يسأل من جديد:
إلى متى ستتردد؟
إلى متى ستمسك يدك بالبعل وأخرى في السماء؟
إلى متى ستنتظر نارًا، بينما مذبحك ما زال مهدمًا؟
حقيقة الله ثابتة:
“اختاروا اليوم من تعبدون”
(يشوع 24:15، الترجمة الموسعة)
لا يوجد ملاذ في الحياد. رقصة الفصح تقدم حرية وحياة. أما تردد الأصنام، فيقود إلى عبودية وموت.
تمسك بالإيمان – وابنِ المذبح
كلمة pasach تعود لتواجهنا. هل سنبقى نترنح بين الولاءات؟ أم سندخل بالكامل في عهد الرب؟
إن الإله الذي يجيب بالنار لا يزال يجيب.
لكن فقط عندما يكون المذبح كاملاً.
فقط عندما تكون التقدمة مبللة بالتسليم.
فقط عندما يكون القلب مكشوفًا أمامه.
صلِّ مع داود:
“قلبًا نقيًا اخلق فيّ يا الله، وروحًا مستقيمًا جدد في داخلي.”
The Lord opened my eyes, and I stood among them, unseen yet present. I could feel the weight of the room—the thick air, the groaning of souls. It was as if I had been carried back through time, placed within the trembling walls of the upper room, where one hundred and twenty waited. Their faces were worn, desperate. Their knees pressed into the cold stone, and the air crackled with a hunger words could not express.
The walls, ancient and heavy with the dust of centuries, seemed to lean in with the prayers. I watched as lips moved without sound, tears ran unashamed, and hands gripped the hem of heaven itself. The Lord had told them: “Stay in the city until you are clothed with power from on high” (Luke 24:49, NASB). And so they waited—not with passivity, but with a fervent, breaking cry.
The sun climbed higher, pouring light through small windows, illuminating swirling motes of dust. The scent of sweat and worn garments filled the air. Yet no one moved for food, no one reached for water. Their thirst was for God alone. I watched a woman collapse against the floor, her face pressed into the stone, whispering one word over and over: “Abba.”
It was not a gathering of the strong. It was an altar of the broken.
Believers gathered in deep intercessory prayer, lifting silent groanings before God, surrounded by symbols of His covenant promises.
Time passed. Hours. The desperation deepened until it was almost a sound itself—a low hum of hunger in the spirit. Peter knelt with his face buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking. I could hear his low plea, “Lord, we have nothing left but You.”
That’s when it came.
A sound—first distant, like a storm gathering beyond the hills—then rushing inward, swift and mighty. It was not the wind of earth but the breath of heaven (Acts 2:2). The stones underfoot trembled. Garments fluttered as if caught in a gale, though the air was still.
The roar filled every corner.
God in the Fire
And then, fire.
It appeared, bright as the sun, fierce and holy. Tongues of flame, living and alive, danced above each head (Acts 2:3). Yet it did not burn. It filled. I saw it—how it sank into them, how their faces lifted, eyes wide, mouths opening with sounds no man had taught them.
The Spirit Himself had come.
They spoke in languages of men and angels. Words of praise, of glory, of the mighty deeds of God poured from their lips. Some wept, undone. Others lifted their hands, faces shining. Some laughed with a joy deeper than any suffering they had known (Nehemiah 8:10). The fire had not only touched them—it claimed them.
I watched as the Spirit pressed them outward, stumbling into the streets. The city gathered quickly, drawn by the uproar. Men from every nation under heaven stared in wonder as these simple, broken vessels proclaimed the glory of God in languages not their own. Parthians, Medes, Egyptians, Romans—all heard the wonders of God in their own tongue.
And then Peter—bold, blazing—stepped forward. I heard his voice, strong and certain, rise above the clamor:
“Repent, and each of you be baptized in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins; and you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit” (Acts 2:38, NASB).
The fire leapt from heart to heart.
Three thousand souls were swept into the kingdom that day.
And still, as I stood there, unseen but seeing, I knew: this was not the end. The fire was not meant for one day, one room. It was a beginning. A first spark of a blaze that would run to the ends of the earth.
I could feel it even as the vision faded—the fire has never gone out. It burns still. And for those who dare to wait, who dare to hunger, the Spirit will fall again.
Prayer:
O Lord God, El Shaddai, let us be among those who hunger for You with all our hearts. Pour out Your Spirit anew, ignite the fire within us. May we lay down every burden, every pride, every sin, until only You remain. Come, Holy Spirit, breathe on us. Let the sound of heaven once again fill our hearts and homes. In the mighty name of Yeshua, we pray. Amen.
I was in the Spirit on the day of despair, and behold—a wilderness wrapped in silence. It was reminiscent of Elijah’s Revelation on Mount Horeb, where the air blistered with heat, and the sky hung heavy, as if mourning. Dust clung to my skin like judgment, and the ground cracked beneath every step. There was no water. No shade. No voice.
Then I saw him—Elijah, the prophet of fire—yet now bent low, trembling beneath a broom tree. His eyes, once full of flame, were now hollow with sorrow. His lips moved, but the words carried the weight of death: “It is enough now, O Lord. Take my life.”
The earth did not open. Thunder did not strike. Instead, bread began to bake on coals, and the scent of fresh fire met my nose—sweet, smoky, and holy. A jar of water glistened in the morning light like dew from heaven. An angel, luminous and stern, stirred the prophet and said, “Arise and eat.”
I watched as Elijah, with shaking hands, tasted the bread of heaven. Strength returned—not the strength of man, but of mission. He walked—forty days into the night of God, each step crunching over dry rock, each breath drawing in the weight of divine silence.
Then I saw the mountain—Horeb, the terror and glory of Sinai. Its cliffs scraped the sky like fingers reaching for judgment. Elijah entered the cave, and I entered with him. The dark swallowed us whole, and the air was thick—thick with the weight of the Almighty.
Suddenly—a wind howled, shrieking down the mountain like ten thousand spirits loosed at once. It tore rocks loose and sent dust slashing at the skin. My ears rang. But God was not in the wind.
Then the earth heaved beneath my feet. Stones cracked and the cave roared like a dying beast. I clung to the wall, heart pounding. But God was not in the earthquake.
Then came fire, licking across the stone in ribbons of gold and red. It roared like a furnace, burned with white heat, and the smell of ash filled the cave. But God was not in the fire.
Then—a sound. No louder than breath. A whisper that wrapped around the soul and pulled it forward. Every nerve stilled. Every sense stretched. I felt it more than heard it. It pierced through flesh and soul and divided spirit and bone.
And Elijah stepped out, wrapped in his mantle, eyes wide. The Voice spoke—not to condemn, but to commission.
“What are you doing here, Elijah?”
Then the LORD thundered in a whisper:
“You are not alone. Seven thousand remain. Go—anoint Hazael king. Anoint Jehu. Call forth Elisha. I am not done. I am not finished. The fire is still falling, and My voice still speaks.”
I looked—and behind the prophet, far off in the veil of glory, a chariot of fire waited, its wheels spinning with the names of the faithful, its horses snorting with the breath of God. It burned, yet did not consume. It stood ready.
And I say to you now, reader of this vision:
You who sit beneath your own broom tree—rise.
Eat. Listen. Go.
The same God who whispered to Elijah is whispering now. Not in the storm of spectacle, but in the secret place. The cave is calling. The commission is upon you.
He who has ears to hear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the weary prophets.
Come alive in Him again. These words are more than a call—they are a command from the voice that once thundered outside Lazarus’ tomb. Jesus Christ, the Resurrection and the Life, still calls the spiritually dead to rise. The story of Lazarus is not just a miracle of the past—it is a living prophecy. What God did in Bethany, He is doing still. What He resurrected then, He is breathing life into now.
“Lazarus, come out!” (John 11:43, NASB). This was no whisper. It was a divine decree that shattered the silence of death. And that same voice now calls to every weary heart, every buried calling, every soul wrapped in grave clothes.
This is your invitation: Come alive in Him again.
You may not lie in a physical tomb, but how many sit in pews while their faith lies cold? How many once burned with holy fire, yet now flicker like a dying wick? How many dreams lie wrapped in linen, sealed behind stone by disappointment, fear, or compromise?
Like the valley of dry bones in Ezekiel 37, some believers look alive but are hollow. God asked the prophet, “Can these bones live?” And the answer came not through man’s power, but through the breath of God. The same breath that hovered over the deep in Genesis 1… the same breath that raised Christ from the grave… the same breath still moves today.
Can you feel it? The stirring?
Jesus Still Raises the Dead
This is not a metaphor. This is truth. In Acts 9, Peter raised Tabitha from death. In 2 Kings 4, Elisha raised the Shunammite’s son. In Luke 7, Jesus touched the funeral bier of a widow’s only son and brought him back. God has always been in the business of raising what others declare finished.
And today, the same power that raised Jesus from the grave dwells in you (Romans 8:11, NASB).
But resurrection is not just about miracles—it’s a call. Return to Me, says the Lord, that you may live (Amos 5:4). Repentance is the first breath of new life. As Jesus said, “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit”(John 12:24, NASB).
Cast Off the Grave Clothes
Even after Lazarus rose, he was still bound. Jesus said, “Unbind him, and let him go” (John 11:44, NASB). Some of us are alive but still wrapped in yesterday’s grief, sin, or shame. Your soul may have heard His call, but your habits haven’t caught up.
It’s time. Time to take off what belongs to the grave. Time to silence the voices that say, “You’ll never change.” Time to rise with Christ and walk as a living testimony that dead things don’t stay dead when Jesus speaks.
You called me from the shadows, Lord, Where silence was my song. You shattered tombs with holy words— I rise where I belong. No grave can hold the child You love, No chain can stay Your hand. I live because You called me forth— To walk, to breathe, to stand.
Prayer:
Abba, breathe on me again. Where I have allowed my spirit to slumber, awaken me. Let every buried gift and forgotten promise come alive by Your Word. I cast off the grave clothes. I believe in the One who raises the dead. Yeshua, call my name again—I will come forth and live. Amen.
⸻
Aaron’s staff blossomed overnight—proof that God brings life where none should exist. His resurrection power still speaks today.
And I looked, and behold—a great valley full of tombs. Some were sealed in stone, others open and hollow, and still others freshly carved but unoccupied. And over the valley hung a stillness like the hush before a storm, and the air was thick with what had once been prayers now forgotten.
And I saw a Man, clothed in light, walking through the valley. His eyes were like fire, and on His sash was written, “I AM the Resurrection and the Life.” Wherever He stepped, the ground pulsed with life. And with a voice like many waters, He called out, saying:
“Come forth.”
Then I saw the tombs tremble, one by one. Bones rattled, hearts quickened, and the breath of God surged through what had lain cold and silent. The dead rose—not just the lifeless, but those who had once walked and sung and served and preached, yet had fallen asleep in spirit.
I saw a woman rise, weeping, her hands still stained from her past, but her eyes beholding glory. I saw a man who had buried his calling stand upright, the scroll of his assignment unrolling in his hands once again. Children whose voices had been silenced by fear now shouted praise.
Then a great voice from heaven cried:
“Loose them and let them go! For what I have called alive, let no man bind again.”
And I saw angels descend with garments of white and oil of joy, clothing the risen ones with strength. They placed harps in their hands and fire on their lips. And I beheld a multitude, once dead in spirit, now burning like stars in the expanse of heaven—each one marked by the Voice that called them forth.
And I fell on my face, trembling. For He who speaks to tombs speaks also to hearts. And I heard Him say:
“Tell them: The time of sleeping is over. The time of hiding is past. I am calling my people to rise. Come alive in me again.”
And I knew it was true, for his voice awakened even me.
In the heavens, I saw the throne of God surrounded by a great cloud of incense, rising like a sweet fragrance. It was the prayers of the humble—those who wept in secret, those who cried out for mercy, and those who longed for the presence of the Lord with all their hearts. Their prayers carried the essence of brokenness, repentance, and surrender, and they ascended together, joined as one voice, to the One who hears the cries of His people.
Then I saw the Lord reach down with His hand and gather the incense. It glowed like molten gold, alive with power and holiness. With His divine authority, He forged it into a sword, brilliant and blazing with fire. Its edge gleamed with the truth of His Word, and its hilt was engraved with the prayers of His saints, woven together in unity. The sword pulsed with a living light, and as it was completed, the Spirit of the Lord spoke:
“This is the Sword of Revival. It is forged from the prayers of the repentant, sanctified by My holiness, and empowered by My Spirit. It shall go forth to shatter the chains of darkness, break the strongholds of sin, and pierce the hearts of the lost. Only the humble and united shall wield it, for My glory rests upon those who are one as I am one with the Father.” The Sword of Revival is a testament to the power of unified prayer.
The Lord extended the sword to the remnant—those who had laid down their pride, turned from their sin, and sought Him with all their hearts. I saw them not as scattered individuals, but as a body, joined together in love and purpose. They took the sword with trembling hands, their voices lifted as one, crying, “Come, Lord Jesus! Reign in us and through us!” A voice like rushing waters called out, “Go now, for the hour of revival is at hand. Lift up the sword, proclaim My Word, and let My Spirit flow through you!”
And I saw the remnant arise, moving in unity, their steps guided by the Spirit, their voices filled with boldness. Wherever they lifted the Sword of Revival, rivers of living water flowed before them. The water surged into dry, cracked lands, bringing life where there had been death. Deserts bloomed, trees of righteousness took root, and their fruit brought healing to the nations. The fragrance of life filled the air, mingling with the sound of angelic shofars that echoed across the heavens, announcing the glory of the Lord.
As the sword moved, chains fell from captives, strongholds crumbled, and blind eyes were opened. The remnant cried aloud, “Repent and return to the Lord, for He is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love!” (Joel 2:13, AMP). Multitudes came, weeping in repentance, drawn by the Spirit. The fire of revival ignited in hearts, spreading like a holy blaze that could not be quenched. The Sword of Revival played a central role in this awakening.
I saw the remnant gather together in prayer, their hands lifted not for themselves, but for one another. They cried out, “Lord, make us one, as You and the Father are one! Let there be no division among us, but unite us in Your Spirit, that the world may see Your glory!” Their unity became a beacon, shining brightly in the darkness, and the Spirit poured out in fullness. Fires of revival ignited across cities, counties, and nations as the people of God moved as one body under one King with the Sword of Revival.
The heavens resounded as the Lord proclaimed: “This is the hour of My great outpouring! Let those who have ears to hear, repent. Humble yourselves before Me, love one another, and I will heal your land. My rivers will not cease, and My fire will not be quenched. The sword is ready, but only the surrendered and the united can wield it.”
To you, dear reader, hear this call: The Lord is extending the Sword of Revival to His people. But it is not given lightly. Lay down your pride, your sin, your idols, and even your offenses. Humble yourself before Him and seek unity with the saints. Let your prayers rise as incense, and let Him forge in you a vessel for His glory. The Spirit is moving, the time is now, and the call is clear—repent, unite, and let His glory flow through you. Will you take up the call and wield the Sword of Revival?
Prayer:
Father, we come before You with broken and contrite hearts. We repent of our sins and lay down our pride. Forgive us for the divisions among us, and teach us to love one another as You have loved us. Cleanse us, Lord, and make us one body, united in purpose and filled with Your Spirit. Take our prayers, our tears, and our surrender, and forge them into instruments for Your glory. Let Your living water flow through us, breaking chains, healing hearts, and igniting revival with the power of the Sword of Revival. Use us to bring life to the barren places, and let Your glory cover the earth as the waters cover the sea. In Jesus’ mighty name, Amen.
