Inde ventūrus est iūdicāre vivos et mortuos (From there he will come to judge the living and the dead)

Inde ventūrus est iūdicāre vivos et mortuos

(From there he will come to judge the living and the dead)

It is well past midnight.

The house sleeps;

I do not.

The story I heard earlier

still clings to me—

a quiet cruelty

carried out by cruel hands.

I don’t repeat the details,

but they sit heavy in the room,

like a shadow that refuses to lift.

I make tea I do not want,

pace the kitchen floor,

open the window to cold air—

but nothing settles.

The night feels bruised.

I sit in the half-light,

the news murmuring its sorrow—

forests on fire,

streets split open,

oceans rising as though groaning.

Creation aches,

and tonight

I ache with it.

I whisper the next line of the Creed:

He will come to judge the living and the dead.

The words land—

weighty,

holy,

urgent.

Because God knows

we need One who will return

to set this fractured world to rights.

Not a cold magistrate,

but the Lamb once wounded;

not a stranger,

but the One who knows our breath and bones.

And yet—

some nights

doubt curls around me like smoke.

What if hope is naïve?

What if justice never comes?

What if the world stays broken

and the wicked keep laughing?

There are nights

I want a different Messiah—

a lion with fire in his eyes,

a sword in his hand,

one who tears evil to pieces

and leaves no doubt

that righteousness has come.

But the One who promised to return

still bears scars.

He judges not with violence,

but with truth.

His throne is not built on fear,

but mercy.

And still—

I long for him to roar.

He will come—

as he promised:

Behold, I am coming soon.

He will come

like lightning splitting the horizon,

like a thief in the unguarded hours,

like a bridegroom

arriving long after

sleep has claimed us.

And still the waiting aches.

Why does night linger?

Why does mercy feel slow

while cruelty multiplies?

Why does the world tremble

beneath burdens too heavy to name?

Yet even in the ache,

hope stirs.

I trim the lamp,

steady the flame,

keep the oil burning—

though the hour is late

and the shadows thicken.

He will come—

the Judge whose hands bear scars,

the King whose throne is mercy,

the Shepherd who gathers the lost,

the Son of Man who descends with a cry

and lifts the weary to himself.

Outside,

the wind leans against the glass

as though creation itself

is knocking on heaven’s door.

Inside,

my heart joins the ancient prayer

spoken by those who waited in the dusk,

lamps trembling in their hands:

Maranatha.

Come, Lord Jesus.

Come—

to silence the weapons.

Come—

to unmake the cruelty.

Come—

to gather what has been shattered.

Come—

with judgement that glows like dawn:

truth unveiled,

lies dissolved,

wrongs undone.

Your kingdom come—

into the headlines that keep me awake,

into the pain whispered at midnight,

into the wounds of the earth,

into the longing of the forgotten.

Your kingdom come—

though we watch in the half-light,

though fear flickers,

though hope is a trembling wick.

Your kingdom come.

And until you come,

we will keep the lamps burning,

we will wait in the dark with open eyes,

carrying the prayer of all creation

on our lips—

Maranatha.

Come, Lord Jesus.

- Rev’d Jon Swales