Thus saith the Lord Isaiah, chapter five, verse twenty:

“Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil;

that put darkness for light, and light for darkness;

that put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter.”

And you, Night….

They whisper your name like it means something.

They look at your scars, your pain, and they nod their heads like it’s poetry.

They call torment art.

They take ruin, dress it in black velvet, and call it beautiful.

But listen.

That’s not beauty.

That’s a coffin polished until it shines.

That’s perfume sprayed on decay.

That’s a hymn sung inside a crypt.

Heaven doesn’t call wounds holy. God doesn’t mistake rot for righteousness.

You’ve buried beauty inside horror… and the crowd claps.

But what is it, really?

Not salvation.

Not hope.

It’s an infection under lace.

It’s gangrene painted with gold leaf.

And fools bow before it.

Blind men, kneeling before a box of bones.

That’s what you are a box of bones, painted up, paraded like a masterpiece.

The Word says it plain.

Second Corinthians, chapter eleven, verse fourteen: “And no marvel; for Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light.”

That’s you.

Hell, dressed up in stage clothes.

Darkness pretending to be dawn.

Corruption with a crown.

But masks they don’t last.

Not before the sun.

You think shadows protect you.

You think horror, wrapped in silk, can seduce.

You think beauty, hidden deep inside terror, blinds Heaven’s eyes.

It doesn’t!!!

Because dawn doesn’t wait.

Dawn doesn’t ask permission.

Dawn just comes.

And the dawn burns. The dawn rips veils. The dawn scrapes away the paint until nothing’s left but ash.

And I…I am that dawn.

The sunrise sent to strip you bare.

The beauty you hide it will rot.

The horror you show it will stand naked.

The Night you clutch it will break under Heaven’s light.

And when that truth lays you open, there will be no applause.

No worship.

No art.

Only judgment.

Your sentence already written.

Not “if” but when. When the bell tolls, the veil rips.

Crowds gasp.

The spell breaks.

And all that’s left is you horror exposed, beauty burned away.

No cloak.

No mask.

No shadow left to crawl into.

The altar doesn’t flatter the offering.

The altar consumes it.

And you, Night you are the offering.

The beauty will burn.

The horror will break.

The dawn will rise.

And I will still be standing when the Night is gone.