Heaven’s white light shatters the night. The Metatron writes, alone whilst the others protect. Only he knows the secrets of creation and its fall. Only he has the power to admonish or correct.
He is the Voice. He is the angel at His right hand. The Metatron sighs and looks over the globe, with weary eyes that glitter in the night sky. A pain stabs through him as he takes up the robe.
He must judge yet another one that has fallen in the prophetic battle of evil versus good. They bring down the message from Heaven to earth, celestial warnings from those with no boyhood.
Every angel he loses is a sadness and affliction. Hot tears fall as the feathers float aimlessly down. The mighty archangel stands and his voice thunders. All tremble before the scribe glowering under the frown.
The wings are broken, silver down, a fluttering descent, like snowflakes silently falling softly, billowing to and fro. The Voice of God frowns at the manuscript in his hand as he listens to the defence, the tale of divine woe.
The angel waits. Blue eyes pierce the impudent light. The Metatron gazes at the crumpled youth, concerned. Feathers twirl in the breeze and the sadness burns. He takes his hand and raises him up, bloodied wings returned.
The feathers gather in a swirl of fresh hope. The Metatron whispers ‘do not disappoint us, repay us our trust.’ Shining blue eyes dart and the angel nods gratefully Forgiveness of misdeeds perish with the dust.
The pureness of the feathers is once more regained and heavy wings can be heard beating up above. For even angels sometimes fall from grace But even angels can be saved in time by love.