The Golden City — The New Jerusalem — Coming Down from Heaven

We watch as it descends, a golden drop of moisture from the Father’s hand.
Spinning and suspended upon the wings of the morning, the smallest as the greatest.
It falls from the heights as an amber-hued Love so pure it crystallizes.
Descending from the Eternal, slowly, bending to the constraints of the Father.

The Walled Haven. The City of Righteousness.
Where the Creator and the creation continue the serious business of creation once more under newly fashioned celestial skies.
The city itself is an ascent to the Throne at the center — where resides the Ancient of Days.
The Son, the precise and perfect image of His incarnated radiance, reigns on His Father’s throne.
From the epicenter and the zenith rises the Tree of Life, feeding upon the waters of the rivers of life that originate from the Throne and the Lamb.

The golden city lies foursquare, its height and width equal, with three gates like pristine jeweled pearls on each side.
The city — that radiant Zion — from which all life flows, rises not as oppression but as beacon and breath both.
Its walls, cream-tinted and gold-gilded, shine with a glory that welcomes rather than warns.

The arches of the interior city, at the furthest edges past the pearled portals entered by way of the foolish pearl merchant of the Word, begin at the lowest elevation.
All rises toward the heart and beating presence where abides the Lamb.
The city itself rises in geometric circles, ever higher, resembling a pyramidal structure only in that its foundation is square — yet its rise spirals in perfect arc toward the enthroned Light, displayed so all may see it no matter the time of day or night.

We intuit that the spotless city — where dwell the saints in light, who perpetually wear the Presence as linen lined with golden thread as witness, and the greatest don nothing extra save scars as sacrament — is a place where purity breathes and hearts sparkle in refracted glory.

Heaven’s New Jerusalem stands as a physical, spiritual, and metaphysical model at once for approaching the Throne in humility and self-emptying.
We walk slowly through the silent streets where Love listens and souls speak in little alcoves shaped like tears.
Family known by face, not label — labels discarded for the only one with worth: Children of God.
Imitators of the Lamb, one and all.

We see those on the fringes walking against the grain and smile, intuiting that souls ascend and descend constantly.
The paving stones beneath our feet are cream-pure, unmarred, marbled with golden veins of mercy as reminder.
The rise of the path is sloped so gently it becomes nearly unnoticeable and self-propelling when shared with fellow pilgrims.

The ascent becomes an endeavor of longing and brilliant seeking.
The steps of the cruciform spiral grow brighter as the blaze intensifies nearer the Source — the Father and the Son — the Spirit drawing and sustaining the inner journey as weight falls away.

The closer we come, the more the colors leech from the cream-whitened stone until it begins to appear translucent, as if to better allow the Father’s light to pierce the pilgrim’s heart.
The souls who walked with us thin now, each having turned aside to dwellings along the way.

The melting point arrives — the more self remains, the heavier the step.
We near the height.
We see the saints and ancients, each with their own demesne granted by the Glorious One.
The elevation of each home stands in gentle reflection of the measure of self sacrificed and the soul’s translucence.

We approach, noting the quiet glory of the saints in humble abodes, always on their last few steps to the Center.
Here, all is hushed.
Dwellings everywhere breathe incense-like worship, save no stain or soot — only residue of glory as gold.

We intuit that the last few steps belong to the Apostles of the Lamb, our friends, the Prophets, and the Lamb Himself.
We shiver at the weight of unleashed Love so pure and present it bleaches the very bones of the stone into beauty.

Courage steadies us when we notice Peter smiling, Hebrew robe flowing, mending a net.
Isaiah stands beside what we can only name the Brightness — the Totality — where if not for Yeshua who shields and swoops in to embrace, entreat, and teach the soul’s eyes to bleed gold without blindness…

We see all those who came before gathered at the peak.
Souls living as one, in constant joy.
No traces of division.
Only peace and a surety of place and meaning — each given leave to pursue passion in service to the Father.

The translucent ones, whom we are unworthy to behold, walk as mirrors and refractors of the Light, embodying and returning it to the Source, and then to the Heaven below.
A kind of heavenly fusion for the hearts of the People of God — Love eternal, Goodness abiding.

From the peak we may not speak of the Purity.
The whiteness that sears.
We may not.
Angels have seen and bear witness.

Only this may be said:
We have seen.
We Know.
Home is coming — and already here.