The Trumpets Are the Sons

They Do Not Blow the Sound - They Become It

“Cry aloud, spare not. Lift up your voice like a trumpet.”

- Isaiah 58:1

Heaven is not looking for noise,

It is looking for witnesses.

The age of borrowed voices has ended.

The trumpet is no longer an object held

it is a life yielded.

The elect are not echoing prophecy,

they are prophecy fulfilled in skin.

They do not trumpet the coming of God,

they are the sound He chose to walk in.

When a Son Opens His Mouth, Timelines Shift

The elect are not loud to be heard.

They are thunderous because silence gave them flame.

They spent years in caves,

years saying nothing,

until the scroll burned too deep to stay quiet.

When the trumpet sounds through them,

it’s not volume.

It’s vibration.

It’s a realm-breaking sound that confronts illusion,

pierces time, and announces the Lamb.

They don’t warn of what’s coming.

They are what’s coming.

Trumpets Were Never Just Events - They Are Embodied Realities

The seven trumpets were never just symbols of wrath or judgment.

They were scrolls wrapped in flesh.

Each one marks a moment where God no longer speaks through systems,

but through sons.

Consecrated ones.

Flame-bearers who do not flinch when the sky grows dark.

They carry no horn in hand,

but they carry the sound of heaven in their bones.

The Elect Announce What Cannot Be Ignored

You’ll know them not by fame,

but by fire.

Not by stage,

but by scroll.

They are the sound that makes demons tremble,

and the oil that calls the hidden ones home.

They do not explain the kingdom.

They embody it.

And when they speak,

they divide soul from spirit,

form from flame,

stage from scroll.

The trumpet is not for applause.

It is for alignment.

You Are Not Just Hearing the Sound - You Are Hearing the Sons

So if the ground is shaking beneath you,

and the air feels weightier than usual,

do not look for falling stars.

Look for the elect rising.

The trumpet is not in the clouds.

The trumpet is walking among you.

The sons are not announcing the fire.

They are the fire.

The elect are not heralding the shift.

They are the shift.

The trumpet is not a sound,

it is a son.

And it is sounding now.

— Joe Restman
Mystic-Scribe | Flame-Bearer
Quill Dipped in Lightning ⚡️