The sky cracked open like the surface of a storm-tossed sea.

Ezekiel had not expected a vision. He had been by the Kebar River, sitting in exile with his people, wondering if God still walked among the ruins of Israel’s rebellion. The wind shifted, and suddenly the world felt thin—like parchment set to flame.

And then he saw them.

A whirlwind came from the north, immense and blazing. A great cloud churned with fire and lightning, and in its heart, something gleamed like molten metal. From it emerged four living creatures, radiant and strange, each with four faces: human, lion, ox, and eagle. Their wings beat like thunder, touching at the tips, never turning, always moving forward.

But it was not only the creatures.

Beneath them were wheels—enormous, intersecting, alive. Wheels within wheels, sparkling like beryl stone, rotating in ways that defied his understanding. They moved with the creatures, as if animated by a shared will. Wherever the Spirit went, they went. Their rims were tall and full of eyes, and Ezekiel felt the weight of a million unseen thoughts watching him.

He could not look away.

His breath caught in his chest. Was this terror or glory? He could not tell. The air crackled with the hum of holiness. He fell to his knees, not because he chose to, but because his body could not stand under the weight of divine presence.

Above the creatures was a throne like sapphire, and seated upon it, a figure like a man—burning, shining, unapproachable. Fire and radiance surrounded him like a rainbow in the storm.

Ezekiel’s heart thundered. He saw not chaos, but order deeper than creation itself. This was not a god of stone temples or broken laws—this was the Living God, enthroned in movement and mystery, beyond exile, beyond borders, beyond time.

And then the voice came, not in thunder, but in calling.

“Son of man, stand up. I am sending you.”

And Ezekiel, still trembling, still dust and ash, stood.

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