The Sound Older Than Empire: When Women Weep Like Walls Are Meant to Fall

There have been moments when vision overtook my senses without warning. Not dream, not memory—visitation.

In two separate moments, the same image rose: Women. Hundreds, maybe thousands. Ululating.

Africa. Palestine.

I did not hear language. I did not need to. Because the sound bypassed language and struck the spirit like thunder does bone.

They were not weeping in grief. They were wielding memory.

Their voices weren’t chaos. They were ancestral resonance—a sound older than empire.

This Sound Was Not a Protest. It Was a Summons.

What was witnessed was not merely cultural. It was spiritual warfare disguised as tradition.

This was not about volume. It was about alignment—with bloodline, with sorrow, with heaven’s justice.

These women did not hold swords. They held one another.

Their cries did not beg. They declared. They didn’t ask for mercy. They announced reckoning.

The Echo of Jericho

In the spirit, another memory rose: Jericho. The day walls fell—not to weapons, but to sound. To obedience. To unity. To something that looked foolish until it became history.

The ululation of these women was that kind of sound. Not crafted by strategy. Released by pain transfigured into authority.

“Shout! For the Lord has given you the city.” —Joshua 6:16

But in this case, the city wasn’t being taken. It was being freed.

The sound didn’t rise to destroy. It rose to deliver. To shake down the illusions of power that had colonized the soul.

Memory as Weapon

What they carried wasn’t nostalgia. It was testimony.

The kind passed through wombs and weeping. The kind that says:

We remember what they tried to erase. We survived what they refused to name. We are the daughters of every mother who refused to die silently.

In their sound was every baby taken, every land stolen, every tongue colonized, every prophecy silenced.

And still they stood. And still they sang.

The Sound Is Rising Again

This is not about ethnicity. It is about spiritual lineage.

Wherever empire has stood—on stolen ground, on silenced mouths, on sacred names renamed— this sound is rising again.

It is coming through women who:

Have wept until their tears dried into intercession Have held families, churches, and nations on their backs Are just now remembering that their voice is a weapon, not a wound

And when this sound rises, walls will fall again.

Not all at once. Not for spectacle. But for deliverance.

To the Women Who Feel This Rising

You are not being dramatic. You are not too loud. You are not confused.

You are remembering something the Spirit planted in your bloodline long ago. You are hearing the summons of a sound older than empire.

You don’t need to explain it. You need to release it.

If you cry, let it shake the ground. If you weep, let it be in rhythm with the sky. If you sing, let it be as one who knows walls weren’t made to last.

This is not performance. It’s prophecy.

And we are listening.

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To the Remnant: A Letter Before the Shaking

“Even now,” declares the Lord, “return to Me with all your heart... Rend your heart and not your garments. Return to the Lord your God, for He is gracious and compassionate... Who knows? He may turn and relent and leave behind a blessing.” —Joel 2:12–14

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You have felt it. Long before the systems cracked and the prophets began to stir, you felt the tremble beneath your feet. You knew something was off—even when others told you to relax, comply, consume, and conform.

You saw what they called inconvenient. You felt what they called emotional. You named what they called divisive. And for that, you were often isolated.

But you are not wrong. You are not unstable. You are not alone.

You are the remnant.

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You Are Not an Afterthought. You Are a Seed.

The remnant is not a consolation prize. It is God’s strategy. His preservation. His hidden justice. Not just to survive—but to signal. Not just to endure—but to witness.

You were kept back for a reason. While many ran toward spectacle, you were summoned to the secret place. While others sought favor, you sought His face.

Your hiddenness wasn’t punishment. It was protection. Your ache wasn’t weakness. It was intercession in seed form.

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You Were Made for This Hour

You were shaped in silence so that your voice could carry weight when it breaks forth. You were taught discernment not so you could criticize—but so you could warn with compassion. You were branded with truth—not to elevate yourself, but to hold the line when others fold.

This is not the time for performance. This is the time for alignment.

Let go of the need to be accepted. You were never meant to blend in.

Let go of the fear of being “too much.” You were never called to be manageable.

Let go of the lie that you're unqualified. The wilderness trained you in ways the classroom never could.

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Now, Take Your Place

The shaking will not wait for your perfection. The assignment does not pause for your comfort. The harvest is real—and the laborers are still few.

Speak what He gives you. Stand where He places you. Love with fire. Warn with tears. Weep with power.

You don’t have to be loud. But you do have to be clear. You don’t have to be everywhere. But you do have to be present.

The remnant is not scattered anymore. The remnant is rising.

We are many. We are marked. And we are not backing down.

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#ToTheRemnant #HiddenOnes #WatchmanRising #HolyResistance #PropheticGeneration #SpiritualAwakening #SetApart #Intercessors #TheTimeIsNow #EzekielWatchmen #Joel2Call

Set Apart: The Hidden Journey of a Watchman.

“Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I set you apart; I appointed you as a prophet to the nations.” —Jeremiah 1:5

I. The Stirring Before the Storm

Before the fire came to my mouth, there was a quiet tearing in the soul.

I saw the fracture in the world before I had language for it. The rituals of normalcy—school, church, country—rang hollow. The joy they sold did not carry weight. The promises cracked in my hands. I watched injustice clothed in respectability, violence baptized in patriotism, and something deep in me refused to bow.

What they called sensitivity, heaven called sight. What they dismissed as empathy, God whispered was assignment.

Before I could name the storm, I felt its tremble. Before the trumpet was in my hand, the burden was in my bones.

This was the beginning of a calling.

II. The Season of Hiddenness

“He made my mouth like a sharpened sword, in the shadow of His hand He hid me.” —Isaiah 49:2

They did not see me. And when they did, they saw wrongly.

Too intense. Too serious. Too much. But the Watchman is not made in crowds—he is carved in the quiet.

There were years when the words burned in me but had no audience. Dreams I could not share. Tears I could not explain. And all the while, the Lord was tuning my hearing to Him alone.

This was the hiding of a holy thing. The sharpening of the arrow in the quiver.

Heaven took note. Even when no one else did.

III. The Weight of Witness

“The lion has roared—who will not fear? The Sovereign Lord has spoken—who can but prophesy?” —Amos 3:8

When the time came to speak, it was not a choice. It was compulsion. Fire in the bones, like Jeremiah said.

I began to write. To weep aloud. To warn. And the resistance came swiftly.

But I did not shrink.

“Your sons and daughters will prophesy.” (Acts 2:17) This word is not rare anymore. It is multiplying.

I saw the fruit—quiet, often invisible to men, but clear to heaven. Each act of obedience pulled me deeper into alignment.

I had become not a voice with an opinion— but a vessel carrying urgency.

IV. The Moment of Revelation

“Do not fear what they fear. Make the Lord your holy fear.” —Isaiah 8:11–13

There came a day when the thunder cracked through my chest. I spoke—and it did not feel like me speaking. I wept—and it did not feel like sorrow alone.

I was recognized—not by title, but by those who had also been marked. They saw the mantle, not the man.

I had been entrusted with something sacred.

Not opinion—but unction. Not status—but stewardship.

When God puts His word in your mouth, you do not barter it for belonging. You declare it, even if it costs you everything.

V. What It Means to Be Called Now

“Son of man, I have made you a watchman...” —Ezekiel 3:17

I am not here to entertain. I am not here to soothe or fit in.

I have been called to warn. To awaken. To weep—with power.

This is not a call of ego. It is a call of intercession.

I am tethered to the throne, not to the algorithm. Not to the institution. Not to trends.

The burden is not mine— but the obedience is.

VI. A Final Word to the Remnant

“Yet I reserve seven thousand...” —1 Kings 19:18

To the ones who feel what I felt. To the ones who are just now waking up. To the hidden ones. The burning ones. The aching ones.

You are not crazy. You are called. Your discernment is preparation. Your groaning is intercession.

You were never meant to blend in. You were meant to stand watch.

Take your place, Watchman. We are many. We are rising. And the Lion is roaring through us.

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