Thoughts, Prayers & Art

I looked, and behold: a valley of bones.
Ezekiel saw them once
I see them now.
A battlefield not ancient,
but modern.
Not myth,
but Monday.

Streets lined with ash.
Towers crumbled like pride.
Flags torn on twisted metal
as if heaven itself refused
to bless this blood.

And then
she rose.

Not with sword,
but with flame in one hand,
and branch in the other.
A fire that did not consume
but revealed.
A peace not soft,
but steady, rooted like Psalm 1’s tree
by the river of God’s justice.

She bore no armor.
She needed none.
Her robe was torn but radiant,
her feet bruised but unwavering.

I knew her by her walk
the walk of a mother
who has waited
at the edge of war.
I knew her by her breath—
steady as Hannah’s prayer,
fierce as Miriam’s song.

And she sang,
like Mary before the empires:

“He has scattered the proud
in the imagination of their hearts.
He has cast down the mighty
and lifted up the lowly…”

The kings had fallen.
The war rooms silenced.
The missiles turned to dust
and the generals bowed their heads
in shame.

And in their place,
the gardener of God took root
planting joy where bombs once fell,
speaking Isaiah’s promise:

“You shall be called Repairers of the Breach,
Restorers of Streets to Dwell In.”

She did not gloat.
She did not conquer.
She restored.

And those with ears heard her.
Those with eyes wept.
The meek, the forgotten, the peacemakers
they gathered like lilies
through the rubble.

This is not myth.
This is not metaphor.
This is Gospel
in the age of guns and grief.

And it is coming to pass.

Let the empire fall.
Let the divine rise.
Let the women speak.
Let the prophets dream again.
Let justice roll down
and the Earth be healed.

For I have seen her.
And she carries the flame.

Rev. Allison Burns-LaGreca+
www.ThoughtsPrayersAndArt.com