Its Leaves Heal Nations—In a City of Light
The Tree of Life blooms where God’s glory shines eternal.
John stumbled forward, his sandaled feet catching on the smooth, crystalline street. His breath came in ragged gasps, not from exertion but from the weight of awe pressing against his chest. He had seen visions before—fiery wheels, beasts with endless eyes—but this was different. This was no fleeting dream. The city shimmered around him, gold and glass fused in a light that didn’t burn but warmed, as if God’s own gaze had become a place to stand. And there, ahead, a river flowed, clear as the first morning, cutting through the heart of the city.
“John, look,” came a voice, steady and deep, beside him. It was the angel who had guided him here, to this New Jerusalem, where no shadow dared linger. John turned, his old eyes straining against the brilliance. Beyond the river, rooted on both banks, stood a tree unlike any he’d ever seen. The Tree of Life. Its trunk was broad, ancient as Eden, yet its leaves shimmered with a green so vivid it seemed to pulse. Fruit hung heavy—twelve kinds, the angel had said—each glistening with promise.
“Do you see?” the angel asked, pointing to the leaves. “They are for the healing of the nations.”
John’s knees trembled. Healing. He thought of the nations he’d known—Rome with its iron grip, Jerusalem with its broken walls, and countless others torn by war and sin. He thought of his own failures, the days on Patmos when exile had gnawed at his faith. He had written of hope, of Christ’s return, but doubt had sometimes crept in like a thief. Could such brokenness ever be mended? His hands, rough from years of labor and prayer, clenched at his sides. He wanted to believe.
He stepped closer to the river, the water’s murmur like a song he’d forgotten. The light of the city—no sun, no moon, just the glory of the Lamb—bathed the tree, illuminating every leaf. John saw now that they weren’t just green; they carried a sheen, almost as if infused with the same radiance that filled the streets. He imagined those leaves pressed against wounds, not just of flesh but of hearts, of histories scarred by rebellion and pain. His own heart ached with the memory of Peter’s denial, of his own fear when the soldiers came for Jesus in the garden. Yet here, in this city, shame seemed to dissolve under the weight of unending light.
“Touch it,” the angel said, voice gentle but firm. John hesitated. He was unworthy—an old fisherman, a disciple who’d faltered. But the angel’s gaze held no judgment, only invitation. With a trembling hand, John reached out and plucked a single leaf. It was cool in his palm, yet it warmed him from within, like the first breath after a long night. A tear slipped down his weathered cheek. He didn’t need to ask what it meant; he felt it. A stillness, a promise. Not just for him, but for all who’d staggered under the curse of sin since Adam’s fall. This tree, rooted in God’s presence, bore victory over every wound.
He turned the leaf over in his hand, its veins tracing paths like rivers of mercy. Beyond it, the city stretched endless, gates open wide, no longer barred by swords or fire. He thought of the prophets—Moses, who’d glimpsed the Promised Land, Isaiah, who’d sung of peace—and wondered if they, too, saw this in their dreams. Faith, once a flickering flame in his chest, now burned steady. Obedience, once a burden, felt like a path already walked by the One who led him here.
John knelt by the river, the leaf still in his grasp. The water reflected the Tree of Life, its branches stretching as if to embrace the world. He closed his eyes, letting the city’s light seep through his lids. There, in the quiet, he heard no voice, no command—only the faint rustle of leaves, whispering of a healing yet to come.
Its Leaves Heal Nations—In a City of Light
The Tree of Life blooms where God’s glory shines eternal.
John stumbled forward, his sandaled feet catching on the smooth, crystalline street. His breath came in ragged gasps, not from exertion but from the weight of awe pressing against his chest. He had seen visions before—fiery wheels, beasts with endless eyes—but this was different. This was no fleeting dream. The city shimmered around him, gold and glass fused in a light that didn’t burn but warmed, as if God’s own gaze had become a place to stand. And there, ahead, a river flowed, clear as the first morning, cutting through the heart of the city.
“John, look,” came a voice, steady and deep, beside him. It was the angel who had guided him here, to this New Jerusalem, where no shadow dared linger. John turned, his old eyes straining against the brilliance. Beyond the river, rooted on both banks, stood a tree unlike any he’d ever seen. The Tree of Life. Its trunk was broad, ancient as Eden, yet its leaves shimmered with a green so vivid it seemed to pulse. Fruit hung heavy—twelve kinds, the angel had said—each glistening with promise.
“Do you see?” the angel asked, pointing to the leaves. “They are for the healing of the nations.”
John’s knees trembled. Healing. He thought of the nations he’d known—Rome with its iron grip, Jerusalem with its broken walls, and countless others torn by war and sin. He thought of his own failures, the days on Patmos when exile had gnawed at his faith. He had written of hope, of Christ’s return, but doubt had sometimes crept in like a thief. Could such brokenness ever be mended? His hands, rough from years of labor and prayer, clenched at his sides. He wanted to believe.
He stepped closer to the river, the water’s murmur like a song he’d forgotten. The light of the city—no sun, no moon, just the glory of the Lamb—bathed the tree, illuminating every leaf. John saw now that they weren’t just green; they carried a sheen, almost as if infused with the same radiance that filled the streets. He imagined those leaves pressed against wounds, not just of flesh but of hearts, of histories scarred by rebellion and pain. His own heart ached with the memory of Peter’s denial, of his own fear when the soldiers came for Jesus in the garden. Yet here, in this city, shame seemed to dissolve under the weight of unending light.
“Touch it,” the angel said, voice gentle but firm. John hesitated. He was unworthy—an old fisherman, a disciple who’d faltered. But the angel’s gaze held no judgment, only invitation. With a trembling hand, John reached out and plucked a single leaf. It was cool in his palm, yet it warmed him from within, like the first breath after a long night. A tear slipped down his weathered cheek. He didn’t need to ask what it meant; he felt it. A stillness, a promise. Not just for him, but for all who’d staggered under the curse of sin since Adam’s fall. This tree, rooted in God’s presence, bore victory over every wound.
He turned the leaf over in his hand, its veins tracing paths like rivers of mercy. Beyond it, the city stretched endless, gates open wide, no longer barred by swords or fire. He thought of the prophets—Moses, who’d glimpsed the Promised Land, Isaiah, who’d sung of peace—and wondered if they, too, saw this in their dreams. Faith, once a flickering flame in his chest, now burned steady. Obedience, once a burden, felt like a path already walked by the One who led him here.
John knelt by the river, the leaf still in his grasp. The water reflected the Tree of Life, its branches stretching as if to embrace the world. He closed his eyes, letting the city’s light seep through his lids. There, in the quiet, he heard no voice, no command—only the faint rustle of leaves, whispering of a healing yet to come.
