The Angels Worship

Holy fire rolling down the aisles,

like liquid gold poured from heaven’s hands.

It moves like a river with no shore,

like wind with a voice,

like love that cannot be contained.

Along the ceiling of the sanctuary

the angels are seated

not distant, not silent

but leaning forward in wonder.

Thousands upon thousands,

their songs layered like waves upon waves,

harmonies woven in light.

Every note trembles with glory.

Every breath carries worship.

The air is thick with holy flame

not burning to destroy,

but burning to awaken.

The fire does not consume the room.

It consumes fear.

It consumes heaviness.

It consumes every lie that said

He was not near.

And the angels

oh, the angels

they sing as if they have seen

the beginning and the end

and know that mercy still wins.

Their voices rise,

and the ceiling becomes a sky,

and the sky becomes a throne room,

and the throne room spills into earth.

Holy fire rolling down the aisles.

Thousands singing.

Heaven leaning close.

And in the middle of it all

God,

smiling over His worship.