Come Soon! Poem by Isadora Quagmire

The world, a stage of shadow and of strife,
Still groans and yearns for everlasting life;
From every heart that knows the Savior true,
A longing rises, constant, fresh, and new.
We pilgrims walk, through valleys dark and deep,
While watching for the promises to keep.
Our spirits sigh, our burdened souls implore,
For Him to stand upon the earth once more.
Come soon, Lord.


The sacred Word, a lamp unto our feet,
Declares the day when grace and glory meet.
He left a promise, sure and true:
'I will send my spirit upon you,
And then return to gather up My own,
To reign with Me upon My heavenly throne.'
That blessed hope, it gives us hope in the fray,
And lights the path of every passing day.
Come soon, Lord.


This weary earth, in travail and in pain,
Awaits the cleansing of His gracious rain.
The ancient curse, it binds with heavy chains,
And sin still mars the beauty it disdains.
We see the signs, the falling of the leaves,
The broken hearts, the sorrows and all grief.
Our mortal frames, by sin and sickness tried,
For that transcendent moment, our souls abide.
Come soon, Lord.


Oh, to behold Him, not through faith's dim glass,
But face to face, as all the shadows pass!
To cast aside this garment stained by the fall,
And rise to answer His triumphant call.
No longer battle with the flesh and pride,
But in His perfect likeness to abide.
To join the saints and the countless angel band,
And worship Him within the Promised Land.
Come soon, Lord.


We often dream of streets of purest gold,
A promise of glory, waiting to unfold.
No night is there, no sickness, pain, or tear,
But Christ will be our Light, dispelling every fear.
Then Eden's bloom, restored in vibrant grace,
Shall fill the bounds of that celestial place.
The Lamb and Lion, gentled, side by side,
Where endless righteousness shall then reside.
Come soon, Lord.


The trumpet sounds, a rift within the sky,
As He descends with majesty on high!
With myriad angels, radiant and bright,
He banishes the darkness with His light.
Each eye shall see, each rebel knee shall bow,
For He is King, from then and ever now.
Our Savior strong, our Judge, our Shepherd true,
To make all things eternally anew.
Come soon, Lord.


No tyrant's rule, no cruel, oppressive hand,
Will then defile that consecrated land.
The tears are dried, the battles ceased and done,
Beneath the glory of His perfect Sun.
The cross endured, the victory complete,
As Satan's power lies crushed beneath His feet.
The wicked vanquished, death forever bound,
Our endless jubilee, forever crowned.
Come soon, Lord.


For souls oppressed, by tribulation sore,
Who long to reach that peaceful, promised shore,
For those who bear His Name through fire and sword,
And witness for their crucified dear Lord.
The Bride, adorned in robes of purest white,
Awaits her Groom, with lamp still burning bright.
We scan the heavens, we read the ancient Word,
And pray for the appearing of our Lord.
Come soon, Lord.


So let the anthem rise, with fervent plea,
From watchful hearts, until the perfect eternity.
A constant prayer ushers, a whisper, and a cry,
As we look upwards to the boundless sky.
Though ages turn, and kingdoms fade away,
Our steadfast hope awaits that glorious day.
Our deepest longing, whispered through the years,
To wipe away all sorrows, doubts, and fears.
Come soon, Lord.
O Lord, come soon!