A Poem Inspired by John 1:19-20

Beside the river’s winding thread,
Where desert winds their whispers spread,
A solitary herald stood
Among the stones and drifting wood.
No throne adorned his humble place,
No royal sign proclaimed his grace;
Yet multitudes from hill and plain
Had crossed the dust to hear his strain.

The ancient prophets long had passed,
Their voices silent at the last,
Yet through the wilderness there came
A burning soul, a living flame.
His garments rough, his dwelling wild,
He stood unbent, unsoftened, styled
By neither court nor priestly art,
But by the fire within his heart.

The nation watched with eager eyes,
Beneath the broad Judean skies.
The years of waiting had been long,
The promise old, the yearning strong.
And many wondered in their mind
If now at last they yet might find
The One foretold through ages vast,
For whom the faithful prayed and fasted.

Then messengers from sacred halls
Approached him by the river walls.
The learned men, the watchful band,
Who sought to know and understand,
Came bearing questions old and deep
That stirred the hearts of all God’s sheep.
They stood before the prophet there
And spoke the burden of their care.

“Who are you?” the question came,
The simple yet unsettling claim.
What title should the witness bear?
What honor should the people share?
What crown unseen adorned his brow?
What glory rested on him now?
What hidden greatness did he own
That drew such crowds around alone?

The river listened as he spoke.
No trembling word his answer broke.
No shadow crossed his steady face;
No pride concealed in modest grace.
He knew the truth and would not bend,
Nor seek a higher, grander end.
The answer flowed both clear and bright,
Like morning breaking into light.

“I am not Christ.”

The words rang plain.
No boast was hidden in the strain.
No secret wish for greater fame,
No hunger for Messiah’s name.
Though thousands gathered at his side,
He would not feed the root of pride.
Though many hearts his preaching stirred,
He spoke the simple, faithful word.

How rare the soul that stands secure,
With vision honest, clean, and pure;
Who does not grasp at borrowed praise,
Nor seek to build a monument’s blaze.
How rare the heart that gladly knows
The measure God Himself bestows,
And finds within that sacred span
The calling given unto man.

The world delights in larger names,
In swelling crowds and rising claims.
It teaches men to climb and strive,
To prove themselves, to stay alive
Within the memory of the age,
To stand triumphant on the stage,
To gather honor, wealth, acclaim,
And magnify a mortal name.

Yet here beside the Jordan’s tide
Stood one who cast such dreams aside.
His greatness flowered from this art:
A yielded and transparent heart.
He sought not what was not his own,
Nor claimed another’s promised throne.
He knew his place within God’s plan
And walked it fully as a man.

The stars are beautiful at night,
Yet borrow all their silver light.
The moon may rule the evening sky,
Yet shines because the sun is nigh.
And John, though bright before men’s eyes,
Refused the crown of false disguise.
He pointed past himself away
Toward One who was the coming Day.

Before the dawn appears above,
The sky grows pale with quiet love.
The eastern clouds begin to glow
With hints of splendor yet to show.
But none mistake the growing light
For noon’s full majesty and might.
The dawn exists to testify
That greater glory draweth nigh.

So stood the witness in his hour,
Possessing neither crown nor power,
Yet clothed in something far more rare
Than royal robes or jeweled wear.
He wore the beauty heaven esteems:
A life surrendered from its schemes,
A voice content to rise and cease
When Christ appeared in perfect peace.

The ages pass, yet still the scene
Retains a depth both clear and keen.
For every soul must answer too
The question set before the view:
Who are you when the crowds arise?
Who are you beneath searching eyes?
Who are you when applause is near
And flattering voices fill the ear?

Will pride construct a lofty throne?
Will self demand a place its own?
Will restless ambition seek to be
What God has never willed to see?
Or shall the heart, like John’s, remain
Content through loss, through joy, through pain,
To speak with honesty and grace
The truth assigned within its place?

Blessed are those whose hearts are free
From chains of false identity.
Who neither shrink in fear nor boast,
But trust the Lord of every host.
Who find their worth not in acclaim,
Nor in the greatness of a name,
But in the God who calls them near
And gives them purpose year by year.

The river still seems near at hand,
The desert wind across the land.
And through the centuries there rings
A witness greater than that kings
Or conquerors in marble halls
Whose glory into silence falls.
For truth endures when fame is gone,
And faithful light keeps shining on.

The prophet’s voice has long grown still,
Yet echoes from the Father’s will.
Across the earth his words remain,
A clear and everlasting strain:
Not Christ himself, but Christ’s true guide;
Not seeking self to be supplied;
Not drawing glory to his frame,
But lifting high another Name.

And when at last all shadows cease,
And every striving finds its peace,
The faithful witness shall rejoice
That he became a humble voice.
For every star shall fade from sight
Before the Lamb’s unending light,
And every crown be gladly cast
Before the One who reigns at last.

Then shall the witness’ joy be full,
The river calm, the desert still.
For all he lived to testify
Will stand revealed before each eye.
And every tongue with one accord
Will praise the everlasting Lord,
While saints and angels all proclaim
The glory of His matchless Name.