A VISION OF JUDGMENT

I was awakened by a terrible sound.

“Bru-a-a-a!” it roared across the darkness.

At first, I did not understand. I thought I was half dreaming. The noise grew louder—shrill, shaking the air, impossible to ignore. “Good Lord!” I muttered. “What an awful racket!” It sounded like some enormous trumpet echoing across the world. I tried to sit up, but something felt strange. Where was I? The sound rose higher and more powerful until suddenly I knew—this was no ordinary noise. “It must be the Last Trump,” I whispered.

The final blast seemed to hook me and pull me upward. In an instant I was no longer in my grave. My small monument, the old elm tree nearby, and the quiet sea view vanished like smoke. Instead, I found myself standing in a vast open space filled with countless people—men, women, children from every age and nation. The place was enormous, stretching like an amphitheater beneath a sky brighter than day. Before us, seated upon a throne of dazzling white cloud, was God Himself, surrounded by angels. One angel still held a great trumpet. Another stood with a massive book in his hands.

A small man stood beside me, peering around excitedly. “Everyone’s here,” he whispered. “Kings, saints, sinners—everybody. We shall know everything now.” He pointed at famous figures from history and muttered comments about them. But I was not listening closely. My eyes were fixed on the throne. God looked over the gathered crowd calmly. His presence was neither angry nor gentle, but powerful and steady.

“Is this all?” God asked.

The angel with the great book glanced over us. “That is all,” he replied. “It was a very small planet.”

God nodded. “Let us begin.”

The angel opened the book and called the first name. A small dark figure rose into the air and landed upon the palm of God’s hand. He was dressed like a king, crowned and proud. Folding his arms, he spoke boldly. He confessed that he had been cruel and powerful. He had made wars, destroyed cities, tortured people, and even forced others to worship him instead of God. “I am guilty,” he declared. “I deserve the deepest punishment.”

The crowd listened in silence. The king seemed fearless, almost noble in his confession. But then the Recording Angel began to read the full record of his life. At first, it listed the great crimes he had mentioned. But soon it described smaller, more foolish things—petty jealousies, silly pride, mean acts done out of temper. The king’s face changed. His dignity faded. He began to tremble. When the angel read a particularly embarrassing moment from his life, the crowd burst into laughter. The great tyrant who had terrified nations now looked small and ridiculous.

“Please, not that!” he cried. “They need not know that!”

He ran back and forth across God’s palm, desperate and ashamed. At last, unable to bear it, he fled up the sleeve of God’s robe, hiding himself in its shadow. God did not stop him.

The next person called was a saint—a holy man who had suffered greatly. He proudly spoke of his hardships and sacrifices. He described how he had endured pain for God’s glory. But once again the angel began to read. Alongside the saint’s brave deeds were records of his pride, his secret pleasure in being admired, and his quiet judgment of others. The crowd laughed again—not cruelly, but knowingly. The saint’s proud expression vanished. Like the king before him, he grew ashamed. He too fled into the sleeve of God’s robe, where the tyrant already sat. In the shadow, the two enemies now sat side by side, equal and humbled.

I felt uneasy. If both the wicked king and the holy saint were so exposed, what of me? When my name was called, I rose trembling. My life was read aloud—my small kindnesses, my selfish acts, my moments of courage, and my moments of weakness. Nothing was hidden. Nothing was exaggerated. Everything was seen clearly and truthfully. I felt stripped of all excuses and false pride. Overwhelmed, I too fled into the sleeve, joining the others in that strange shelter.

Inside the shadow there was no fire, no torture—only understanding. The tyrant and the saint sat quietly beside one another. Without titles, without glory, without shameful pride, they seemed simply human. For the first time, they understood themselves and each other. And so did I.

At last, God shook us gently from His sleeve. We found ourselves standing upon a beautiful planet, fresh and untouched. It was not the old world we had known. It was brighter, cleaner, more wonderful. The sky shone with a strange green sun. Around me stood countless souls, no longer proud or fearful, but calm and thoughtful.

God spoke once more. “Now that you understand me and each other a little better,” He said, “try again.”

Then He and the angels vanished. The throne disappeared. We were left upon that new world—given another chance, not as saints or tyrants, but as people who finally understood the truth about themselves.

And so we began again.