The Angels Long to Hear

In the endless hum of wanting,

man fills his mouth with dust.

He builds temples of currency

and calls them blessed,

while the angels yawn —

their wings heavy

with the silence of our noise.

The Son of Man walks still, unseen,

through the markets and the pews,

seeking hearts not yet traded

for comfort or acclaim.

He whispers into the clamor,

but our ears are tuned

to the rhythm of return.

The world spins on a coin’s edge,

polished by desire’s thumb.

Man, brilliant and blind,

names himself god of progress —

yet grows poorer in wonder.

He reads the Word like a map,

arguing about the borders

while forgetting the journey home.

Across the ocean, barefoot prophets sing,

and heaven leans close.

They do not preach of gain or safety —

they speak of Light that bends the dark,

of blind eyes bursting open,

of hearts unchained by fear.

Their prayers rise like incense,

and the angels weep,

for they have heard that sound before.

In our land of mirrors and teeth too white,

the gospel hides beneath the static —

a still, small truth

that cannot be purchased,

only received.

The mystery remains:

that God —

unthinkably simple,

unbearably near —

has come to seek

what we lost

when we found everything else.

And if all His words were written,

the oceans would drown in ink,

the skies collapse beneath the weight of grace,

and still —

the angels would long

for one more sound:

a man,

once lost,

now found,

whispering back,

“I hear You.”