The New-Made Earth Poem by Isadora Quagmire

Upon the dawn of Time's last song,
When the shadow's tale at last is done,
And from the east the golden throng
Of morning breaks, a world begun—
The New Earth wakes wet with dew,
Emerald hills in glory born,
The wounds of old made bright and new,
Crowned by grace and never torn.
No sword nor sorrow haunts the land,
Where rivers sing a silver hymn;
The Tree of Life by the Maker's hand
Spreads leaf and fruit on every limb.
A city shines with shining walls,
Its gates are pearls, its streets aglow;
No night descends, no shadow falls—
The Lamb Himself the Light shall show.
The harps of saints with echo ring
Beneath the sky's eternal blue,
The nations gather, dance, and sing
As broken prayers and dreams dreams are woven true.
No pain remains, nor tears, nor loss,
The thorns are gone, the curse undone—
From throne of light, from sacred cross,
Flows mercy endless as the sun.
O pilgrim hearts, lift up your gaze:
Beyond the present's fleeting gloom,
A far green country's shining blaze
Awaits beyond the empty tomb.
Rejoice and walk with steadfast feet,
For He who spoke worlds into birth
Shall summon all to home complete—
A song fulfilled: the New-made Earth.