“The days are coming,” declares the Sovereign LORD, “when I will send a famine through the land– not a famine of food or a thirst for water, but a famine of hearing the words of the LORD.” Amos 8:11
The Gethsemane womb protects the end time birth, an incubator for the pregnant revelation. His final miracle cocoons in the suffering place waiting for ears to hear the cry of the birth:
A holy huddle surrounds the birth. In haste, the Bride acts. The fallen comrade mourns the zeal of the Bride who cuts off the ear of the one He died for.
“Put away your sword,” the Commander of Host cries out.
The arm of the Lord is the only sword that can slice the membrane that holds back the spit. The sword that cuts; heals. His sacred sword reaches out with sharpened finger dipped in the healing balm of Gilead.
“Ephphatha,” He whispers. “Be opened.”
With hallowed breath, Ephphatha is named; the birth of the ear witnessed by the midwifery defence shield. An Ephesians crowd of witnesses unknowingly stand in the gap protecting their comrade who humbly laid down his life for their birth.
The purity of sound begins to rain. Holy manna moistens the birth canal of the ear and readies it for the sonic boom of salvation. The holy spit of Ephphatha rains down and dormant ears begin to hear. The hushed sound from heaven echoes in the kingdom. The hardened stones open to receive the cry of Ephphatha. The parched famine of the word is hushed and the silence of sound opens with a whisper,
Sound pours out on the House of David, and those who hear, mourn. Ephphatha opens the understanding of the sin and the sharpened holy arm cuts off the resonance of idolatry. The prophetic sound of the return of the king is opened to those who mourn the pierced one.
Ephphatha precedes The Acts of the Bride and the third walk into the fire. Silence is purged and the ear opens and sanctifies in the heat. Ephphatha consecrates the ear, morphing it into a holy vessel to receive revelation. For one does not interpret revelation; one must hear revelation.
A soft chorus of Ephphatha murmurs to and fro, opening the hearing of utterance. The sound from heaven, the mighty rushing wind sings the final hymn. In unity of three, Ephphatha is whispered from heaven and opens the seal of the alabaster jar. The fragrance of the healing balm of Gilead follows Ephphatha and the perfumed breath releases the healing hallowed spit.
Where Ephphatha is whispered, there is healing.
Jesus answered, “No more of this!” And he touched the man’s ear and healed him. Luke 22:51
The sack-clothed glory readies in the womb as wailing women give voice to its imminent arrival.
“EX INTIMIS VISCERIBUS MISERICORDIA COMMOVEOR!”
His womb aches for a resting place but there is no room in the sanctuary. The marketplace hustles and bustles in anticipation of the Harvest Census but buyers and sellers dismiss the value of the fertilized seed. The merchants know there is no margin in a fruit freely given.
There is movement in the womb. The fruit is ripe, saturated for birth, and the midwifery stones wail in anticipation. His eyes dart to and fro longing for labourers empty enough to bear the olive pressed fruit.
It is the ninth hour.
Splagchnon makes room for the ache of His womb. The cry of Nineveh transitions through the blue penciled line between the seen and the unseen. The membrane of silence shatters with the final push:
The divine dew pink with the blood spews forth. A longing so deep, it overflows from the heart of Him into the humble who long to give. The ring of fire sears those who bear the Gethsemane twinned fruit. Compassion and Mercy are named. The swaddled fruit whimper, still tender from the birth. Incubated in the shadow, they wait for the Father to make room. The Lord of Hosts raises his sword and cries out:
The yielded sword, sever unholy alliances that stop the flow. The beloved are pruned and those who do not succumb to the sword are driven from the sanctuary. The Father of Mercy reclaims His key and unlocks Sanctum Sanctorum; its counterfeit is hurled into the fire. A tear trickles down his cheek as He surveys the lost multitude huddled in the secret place. Moved with Compassion, He raises his sickle and whispers:
“I will have Mercy on whom I will have Mercy,
I will have Compassion on whom I will have Compassion.”
The eyes of the heart reveal the wisdom of His fruit. Travailing at Gethsemane precedes the entrusting of the precious multitude. Ichabod remains constipated but Humility opens loins that long to be moved. Compassion pushes out judgement and Mercy boomerangs back blessing those who bless. The twinned fruit bear more fruit. Preaching, Teaching and Healing become the heirs of Compassion and Kindness and Forgiveness are begotten of Mercy.
Compassion and Mercy restore the breach that wall the cubed ember. The repaired rampart protects the flame and the newly polished pearl illuminates the way. Hand in hand, nations return to the square drawn by the brilliance of the Lamb. On bended knee they drink from the chalice of the river that roars from the fire. Ha’etz is shared and in communion they eat of the fullness of the fruit tree. The agony of the garden that birthed the fruit, blossoms into leaves that heal Gethsemane. Glory and Honour take their place; the rear guard fruits of Compassion and Mercy.
The root rises up to kiss the star as the twelve watchmen position at the gates. At the sound of the trumpet, in unity the Sentinel Host cry out for Nineveh:
Holy, Holy, Holy,
Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
“But when he saw the multitudes, He was moved with compassion for them…” Matthew 9:36