“I know where you dwell, where Satan’s throne is. Yet you hold fast my name.”
—Revelation 2:13, ESV
I know.
Not as one knows a country
by tracing its borders on a map.
Not as one knows rain
from the other side of glass.
I know the ground beneath your feet,
the narrow room of your days,
the weight that wakes before you do.
I know where you live.
I know the life you cannot simply leave—
the door that will not open,
the road that turns you back,
the hour you did not choose
and cannot hurry through.
I know you would not have chosen this.
I know the world has not been just.
I know your helplessness.
I know your weakness.
I know every tear
no one else has seen.
I have seen you fall
where no one knew you had been standing.
I have watched you rise—
not because you were unafraid,
not because you had become strong,
but because beneath the fear
there remained one quiet refusal—
you would not turn away.
I know you before the victory.
I know the cry of hope you raise
when every way forward has closed.
I know you in the deepest dark,
where faith may cost you your life.
Still, you choose to stand.
Still, you hold fast to my name.
Now let my words hold fast to you:
The silence was not my absence.
The darkness did not hide you from me.
You did not let go of me.
And I—
I have never let go of you.
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