Third Shadow

half-time feel. Assyria, seven-twenty-two BC— Iron chariots, northern kingdom gone. Babylon, five-eighty-six— Walls down, temple ash, Jeremiah's tears. Rome, seventy AD— Not one stone left. Jesus said it first. History hums the same old tune: They rise, they rage... then fade too soon. And Nostradamus, fifteen-fifty-five— A thin flame from the stars, a spark of trust. That spark says "hold on"—through the dust. Blue turban from the East, seven-month war— But that flame holds steady, lifts us higher. We were born before the wind... Also younger than the sun... Third shadow falls on Jerusalem's hill— Blue turban rides, the air goes still. Seven months of fire, nations swarm— But listen close: the storm's not the norm. There's hope at the end... Yeah, hope at the very end. October twenty-three, the rockets screamed— Hostages taken, the world half-dreamed. Hezbollah north, Iran pulls strings— A voice in Tehran—blue-black wings. Ezekiel's horde—Gog from the north— Zechariah's cry: "All nations forth." Revelation's beast, forty-two months— But after the siege, the light comes once. Every time the dark came down— Assyria, Babylon—kings wore crowns. Hitler marched, then broke apart... The pattern's cruel... but it has a heart. After the exile, after the fall— A king returns. Light over all. Third shadow fades on Jerusalem's hill— The blue turban's gone, the silence fills. No more exile, no more war— The Lord's the king... forevermore. We were born before the wind... Deep into the mystic... We ride.