The Woman Clothed with the Sun

The sign in heaven was impossible to miss.

A woman. Clothed with the sun. Not holding it, not near it — wearing it. The sun as her garment.

The moon under her feet. A crown of twelve stars on her head.

And she was with child.

Crying out in labor. In the pain of giving birth.

The dragon stood before her.

Red. Seven heads. Ten horns. Seven crowns.

His tail had swept a third of the stars from the sky and thrown them to earth — a reminder of what had already been lost in his rebellion.

And he stood there waiting.

Not to fight the woman. To devour the child.

The moment the child was born.

She brought forth a man child, who was to rule all nations with a rod of iron.

The dragon knew what that meant. He had always known.

He had been trying to prevent that birth for thousands of years.

Through every persecution, every genocide, every scheme to cut off the line.

But the child was caught up unto God, and to his throne.

Beyond reach.

Safe in the place the dragon could no longer access.

The woman fled into the wilderness. A place prepared for her.

God had already made a place.

Twelve hundred and sixty days of provision. Of protection. In the wilderness that the world would not think to look.

The dragon raged.

But the woman was beyond him.

And the child was beyond him.

And he knew, standing there in his fury, that he had already lost.

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