GONE BEFORE THE WORD He shouted to the passing crowd, Hoping one soul might turn, A son, a daughter of the earth, From paths where flames still burn. With only a Bible, black and worn, And courage on his tongue, He raised his voice beneath the sun, Where endless echoes clung. His finger stabbed the heated air, Declaring judgment near, Cursing the shadows, crying loud, For hearts too deaf to hear. His eyes were fire, burning red, His hair was stormy gray— Not aged by time, but carved by strife, In streets that led astray. And those who met his gaze would find A thunderous rebuke; He called on heaven’s mighty hand, Each word a sharpened hook. Yet there, a man in tattered rags Sat slumped against the wall, Silent beside the public gate, Unmoved by heaven’s call. The preacher grasped his weary frame, Proclaiming, “The end is near!” But death had come—his world was gone, No sound, no breath, no fear. ~DANIEL MINKECH

GONE BEFORE THE WORD He shouted to the passing crowd, Hoping one soul might turn, A son, a daughter of the earth, From paths where flames still burn. With only a Bible, black and worn, And courage on his tongue, He raised his voice beneath the sun, Where endless echoes clung. His finger stabbed the heated air, Declaring judgment near, Cursing the shadows, crying loud, For hearts too deaf to hear. His eyes were fire, burning red, His hair was stormy gray— Not aged by time, but carved by strife, In streets that led astray. And those who met his gaze would find A thunderous rebuke; He called on heaven’s mighty hand, Each word a sharpened hook. Yet there, a man in tattered rags Sat slumped against the wall, Silent beside the public gate, Unmoved by heaven’s call. The preacher grasped his weary frame, Proclaiming, “The end is near!” But death had come—his world was gone, No sound, no breath, no fear. ~DANIEL MINKECH