The Eleventh Hour

Black flip clock with eleven o'clock time on panel closeup

This article was written by state missionary Rob Jackson.

This week’s Ministry Moments is a little different than usual. I feel led to share a poem my dad penned in his study twenty years ago. As I read the news and look at everything that is going on in our country, I agree we must wake up! Time is short. Though my dad is dead (at least on the earth), he still speaks:
The clock on the wall in the entrance hall just struck eleven. I peer heavy-eyed out of my study window and see frightening darkness, suffocating everything around me with pillows of blackness.
            Wake up! Wake up! For God’s sake, don’t sleep now.
            The hour is late. Death is fast approaching!
Toynbee, was it you who made my Austrian friend sound the alarm? Is your prophecy fulfilling before I have taken the time to ponder what you spent a career trying to tell us? America in her eleventh hour?”
Reality is at hand. Just a while ago it seemed so distant. Though it was but a few clock ticks ago it appeared ages away. And, to think, I didn’t even hear its loud staccato beat. Too busy with toys and trinkets, mirth and song, pleasure and wasteful profligacies, scaling ladders and conquering people. “Toast me,” I had earlier said, “And I will toast you.” “We have made it to the top!”
So lifted we our goblets high and touched them together with proud noise. Then tipped we them to us and imbibed, far too long, until we had more than our fill, and the last drops were not as rich and sweet as were the first.
We laughed the laugh of intoxication. Things fuzzier got as we sipped, then swallowed big, the wine of bountiful orchards, inherited from greater generations, planted before Time in the purposes of the Great Creator. Talk became thick-tongued nonsense until we began to doze.
Thank God I heard the chime! A sobering sound in a grave moment.
            Wake up! Wake up! For God’s sake, don’t sleep now.
            The hour is late. Death is fast approaching!
Can’t you hear the hoof beats of his arrow-swift steed as they come closer and closer? People must be warned. Where is Paul Revere? Has he no kin left? Those who will awaken, and arouse others, and fight?
The battle is upon us now in America. Bayonet close. It is a titanic struggle for Life and Liberty. It is more. It is War between Good and Evil, begun in the shrouded past of Eternal mystery, being played out in the Here and Now on the stage of history. The beginning of Armageddon?
Casualties are high. And getting higher. See the mounting murdered millions piled high in Plutus’ silver-plated wagons; innocent babies slaughtered at the altar of Aphrodite, sacrifices that forever scar the psyche of Eve’s daughters, that disgrace the name of Hippocrates and grieve the heart of God.
Note the endless river of children drowning in streams of intellectual fabrication, moral relativism and multicultural compromise, pulled away from safe moorings by guides who float on tides of political correctness rather than take the risks of swimming against the currents.
Mark well Set and Horus in amorous embrace, altering the landscape of the Fatherland through powerful influence, ruining multitudes of our finest young with open, encouraged, displays of unnatural affection.
Who is contributing to this sickening scene while the Mother of All Battles is raging? Modern-day Brutuses who hang truth on the scaffold of political expediency and plunge daggers into the hearts of good Caesars. The sadder guilt belongs to Men of the Cloth and People of the Pew, who piously pray and chant and sing, sheltered by stain glass and gothic arches and towering steeples, who get so lost in the swell of majestic organ sounds that they cannot hear the cries of the battlefield.
            Wake up! Wake up! For God’s sake, don’t sleep now.
            The hour is late America. Death is fast approaching!
To arms! To arms! Will you join God’s militia for Truth and Freedom? For Justice and Righteousness?
The clock on the wall of the entrance hall just struck the hour. Did you hear it? Will you heed it? It is one stroke ‘till midnight!