Prophecy

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The heat increased as the far-distant flames seemed to creep nearer, like a river of molten lava. The people stared open-mouthed.

There were hordes, old, young, middle-aged. They all wore shrouds as in the grave. A twin who had been buried was astonished as he recognised his brother who was cremated.

Earlier, their names had been called. The sound of each reverberated like an organ in a huge chapel. A bearded angel with wings like an eagle opened books and examined them. In a booming voice he said: “He is not written, Lord” or “Her name does not appear.” Again and again the chilling words were pronounced.

The Lord sat on a huge dais amid a light brighter than any had seen. His features were lost in the bright aura, yet there was a tremendous majesty and dignity in his demeanour. As each name was called as missing from the books, He said in a soft but clear voice “Your name is not written. I must carry out Revelation 20:15. Depart from me, I never knew you.” People were led off to an enclosure with massive iron gates. They shuffled forlornly like a down-and-out moved on by a policeman.

“Hey, what does it mean, Revelation 20:15? What are those flames in the distance?” a young man shouted.

One who knew the Bible answered sadly, “It means we go to a lake of fire.”

They had only heard of a loving God. One said, “This couldn’t be in the Bible. No-one talked or preached about a lake of fire. It was all ‘just religion’ wasn’t it?”

Some screamed, some groaned as the truth dawned too late. Some sobbed quietly. One who had been told the truth simply stared in disbelief as what he had scorned became reality.

An ex-President strutted indignantly, proud and arrogant still. He had been feted everywhere. “Don’t you know who I am?” he shouted, but everyone ignored him. His private jet had crashed into a mountain. He had heard the Good News, but scoffed, refusing to believe. “What, a humble carpenter the Son of God?”

Angels in white appeared. The sadness and compassion showed as they gazed at the multitude of lost souls. Soon the awful work would begin.

“Why did you put me off?” A youth said to his friend. Both had died in a car crash clutching their beer bottles. He continued haltingly through the tears, “I wanted to do something about what that old guy said in the park.”

An actress sobbed softly. The heart attack had come swiftly as a hunting lioness the day after she had skimmed over the tract. She had stuffed it in her handbag, and meant to look at it again. It was titled “This Was Your Life.”

A distinguished-looking man muttered. “My neighbours went to church every Sunday while I went to the ball game. Why didn’t they warn me of this?”

An old man cursed and spat continually. He had been to a gospel meeting when young but when the altar call came he had left. At 75, dying in the hospital bed he rejected a Christian nurse who had softly told him of the Good News.

The wails increased as the realisation came. Now the unsaved, dejected and rejected, were being led out of the enclosure one by one, a robed figure either side. It all seemed to be in slow motion. Time seemed of no consequence.

The heat now was like a desert wind. The wall of flame came nearer, and then it was immobilised - as a horse in a starter gate. The figures— propelled by the angels—disappeared screaming into the flames.

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What can be more important than telling as many as we can of Jesus’ great salvation, while there is yet time?

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