Gospel.

Fear. Shame.
A touch. A tinge.
A wave, drowning
the hope, peace,
connection
that once wove the fabric
of Garden existence.

A curse passed down
upon the monster, upon the ground.
Our first father and mother,
with trembling choice,
a legacy of weight, burden,
created.
Reflection smattered, Image obscured.

The garden waits, wounded,
holding its breath
for the final verdict
upon generations
of sons and daughters.
Angels peer over heaven’s horizon,
peeking beyond the curtain
into the garden now court.
The serpentine Accuser, coiled in shadow,
breath abate, eyes bright with anticipation
for Judge’s final, crushing
words upon Rebels.

Enemies.
A War declared—
seed against Seed,
lie against Truth.
Pain beyond measure,
striving no man could bear.

Lest One.

The anticipated judgment
would come.
But a greater and final word,
a whisper, a Promise
that would remain in mystery
until at the right time—
He will come.

A Child.
A Seed.
A Son.

Laying aside rightful heavenly
Prerogatives, Powers, Praises;
for humility—dust and thorns.
Bear the bruising of every
broken soul.

Heel wounded—
not defeated.
Head shattered—
evil undone.

Hope stirs
within the rubble of rebellion.
Humanity hears, breathes,
beats again.
The ancient serpent
trembles.
The verdict has been pronounced.
Grace is
Victorious.

The first curse,
already undone by
the first Gospel.

He
will come.

And when He does,
all lost will begin its return.