Shape of Glory

What we shall become when time is no more

When the last breath slips like dawn through dust,

And bones lie still beneath their rust,

When silence swells where sorrow slept—

We rise, not broken, but heaven-kept.

No longer bound by time’s decay,

No aching limbs, no fear, no fray.

The scars we bore—like stars, they gleam,

Not marks of pain, but proof we dreamed.

We will not walk, we will not run,

But soar like thought, like flame, like sun.

The weight of flesh will melt like mist,

And every wound be gently kissed.

Eyes that wept will blaze with sight

Beyond the veil of mortal night.

The blind shall see not just the skies,

But truth that hides in love’s disguise.

Tongues once chained by grief or shame

Will speak with light and not with name—

No lies to shape, no hate to twist,

Just songs that only peace could list.

Hearts once torn by loss and fire

Will pulse with calm, not with desire.

And all the “why” that bruised our days

Will soften in eternal rays.

What we shall be, we do not know—

But like the One who faced death’s blow.

Transfigured not by death’s release,

But by His mercy, burning peace.

So let us live with roots in grace,

With eyes not here, but toward that place—

Where dust is clothed in glory’s skin,

And love remakes us whole again.