They file in like cattle.
Every thirteen seconds, the bell tolls, the breath stops, the soul slips.
Mothers. Fathers. Addicts. Atheists. Churchgoers. Children. Killers.
The conveyor belt hums. Hell doesn’t flinch.
I read somewhere—someone did the math.
Thousands die daily. A stadium filled before sunrise.
The netherworld never closes. There’s no “closed for maintenance.”
No holiday hours. Just fire. Just darkness. Just teeth grinding under judgment.
We scroll. We sip. We shrug.
And I wonder…
When did we start counting bodies like stock reports?
When did hell become a statistic?
Jesus didn’t die for statistics.
He didn’t take lashes to feed some soulless database.
He was pierced—not with theory, but with nails.
He didn’t speak in metaphors when He warned us of the wide road.
He meant it. He felt it. And then He walked it—so we wouldn’t have to.
> "Strive to enter in."
"Few are chosen."
"Broad is the path to destruction."
We memorize it. We quote it.
But do we weep over it?
Does it haunt us that souls fall into the abyss like grains through a broken hourglass—
And we argue about politics and potlucks?
Don’t tell me you believe in hell if you don’t preach Christ crucified.
Don’t quote damnation unless you weep for the damned.
I’ve lived close to that edge.
Addiction. Trauma. Filth. Pride.
I know the scent of death in my lungs. I’ve stared over the cliff.
Only grace pulled me back.
Only blood bought me a second chance.
Only Jesus shattered my chains and told me I still had a name.
So now I write. I cry. I warn.
Not because I like the sound of judgment,
But because I’ve been to the edge of it.
And I know there’s still time to run.
Hell is real. But so is the cross.
The gates of death are open, yes—
But so is the tomb of the risen Son.
Run, while there’s still time.
Cry out, before the silence swallows you.
Repent, not out of fear—
But because mercy still calls your name.
The conveyor belt moves.
But you don’t have to ride it.
Every thirteen seconds, the bell tolls, the breath stops, the soul slips.
Mothers. Fathers. Addicts. Atheists. Churchgoers. Children. Killers.
The conveyor belt hums. Hell doesn’t flinch.
I read somewhere—someone did the math.
Thousands die daily. A stadium filled before sunrise.
The netherworld never closes. There’s no “closed for maintenance.”
No holiday hours. Just fire. Just darkness. Just teeth grinding under judgment.
We scroll. We sip. We shrug.
And I wonder…
When did we start counting bodies like stock reports?
When did hell become a statistic?
Jesus didn’t die for statistics.
He didn’t take lashes to feed some soulless database.
He was pierced—not with theory, but with nails.
He didn’t speak in metaphors when He warned us of the wide road.
He meant it. He felt it. And then He walked it—so we wouldn’t have to.
> "Strive to enter in."
"Few are chosen."
"Broad is the path to destruction."
We memorize it. We quote it.
But do we weep over it?
Does it haunt us that souls fall into the abyss like grains through a broken hourglass—
And we argue about politics and potlucks?
Don’t tell me you believe in hell if you don’t preach Christ crucified.
Don’t quote damnation unless you weep for the damned.
I’ve lived close to that edge.
Addiction. Trauma. Filth. Pride.
I know the scent of death in my lungs. I’ve stared over the cliff.
Only grace pulled me back.
Only blood bought me a second chance.
Only Jesus shattered my chains and told me I still had a name.
So now I write. I cry. I warn.
Not because I like the sound of judgment,
But because I’ve been to the edge of it.
And I know there’s still time to run.
Hell is real. But so is the cross.
The gates of death are open, yes—
But so is the tomb of the risen Son.
Run, while there’s still time.
Cry out, before the silence swallows you.
Repent, not out of fear—
But because mercy still calls your name.
The conveyor belt moves.
But you don’t have to ride it.
