The thunder crashes and lightning flashes.
The billows sweep across the dusty ground, sucking substance into its clouds.
Fire flames. Turning life into coal, and then to ash.
The earth trembles and groans, seeking refuge. But it can not hide from the turmoil.
The noise continues to sound.
Colors try to stay erect. But everything has turned to nothing more than the look of muck.
Can peace be found in this storm?
Does any rest linger in the air?
Pulses beat, lungs creak, eyes will not close for the fear.
The heart cries out for a message.
Surely it is here somewhere.
Surely this drama could only mean that the Voice is speaking.
It is not until the wild winds are gone.
The lighting is ignored.
The tremors stilled.
When the quaking is calmed.
And life is awash with the silence,
It is then.
It is then we hear it.
The mighty Voice.
Spoken to the deepest place of longing.
This intensity could at a second’s command be unleashed,
But it is controlled. Gentle.
Displaying the greatest strength of all.