But of that day and hour no one knows…
—Matthew 24:36
Tomorrow is the most sacred
day on the calendar.
It’s filled with solemn promise—
gleams like the face of Moses,
stepping down in awe
from Sinai’s cloud.
Even Sol can’t mirror its
brilliance; Sirius
surpassed in glory.
It comes with sweat & blood,
marking doors as if
a Hebrew dwelt within, to be spared
a first-born son. Arrives in
stealth like the Angel of the Lord.
The altar of Tomorrow
will exceed our lamb & wine.
A cup that’s scrubbed of gold;
for the aureate can’t hold its
worth, the bursting of
our seven octillion
atoms.
It cleanses like the Christ.
Our faces in the shine of
its salvation. For what
are bedraggled hands
if not thorough?
Heaping on their fingers
every sin.
Tomorrow has a hymnal
all its own. Humming like the
organ at Notre-Dame.
Whistles like a
legion of marching dwarves—
for the least shall be the greatest
in its Kingdom.
The night before
we’ll groan, begging to be spared a
suffering’s chalice—
Gethsemane put to shame.
But even mercy must
pay the piper when he’s due;
delayed as a Saviour’s vow
to come again;
for here our roaches
shudder, these tenants who have never
defrayed the rent,
know that we’ve exhausted
X and crosses,
aware Tomorrow eventually
morphs into today, larvae
sprouting wings amid the
miracle of the dawn.
Andreas Gripp
September 12, 2026
photograph: New Africa / Shutterstock
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