Presented by Vincent Cheung

Upon the midnight’s solemn pall,
A whisper came, a dreadful call,
A voice that mocked the Spirit’s might,
And plunged the soul to endless night.
No shadowed wing, nor tempest’s cry,
Could bear the weight of such a lie.

Faithless tongues, with venom fraught,
Profaned the wonders Heaven wrought.
They scorned the miracles divine,
And claimed the power ceased its sign.
Yet truth, eternal, cannot fade;
Their words are but a broken blade.

Oh, woe to those who mock the flame,
The sacred power, the holy Name.
For they who cast the Spirit low,
Shall reap the storm they sought to sow.
No dawn shall light their shadowed way,
No peace shall grace their final day.

The churches, cold with faithless creed,
Disown the gifts the faithful heed.
They chain the Spirit, bind the Word,
And silence Heaven’s sovereign chord.
Thus blasphemy, like poison, spreads,
And fills the earth with living dead.

What folly blinds their darkened eyes,
To cast the heavens into lies?
The Spirit speaks; His voice they spurn,
Yet in His wrath, they still shall burn.
Eternal blight, a doom so dire,
To mock the everlasting fire.

Oh trembling soul, do not deny
The power that rends the veil of sky.
For those who spurn the Spirit’s breath
Shall find no mercy in their death.
Let faith arise, let doubt retreat,
Lest you be cast to flames’ defeat.