I wept.

I don’t know about you, but when I read the news that two people in Singapore – one elderly, one a foreigner – had succumbed to COVID-19, I cried.

Driving down the expressway, surrounded by a wall of my children’s noise, I cried as if nobody could see me.

For Case 90, the 75-year-old Singaporean woman who first reported symptoms on February 9. For Case 212, the 64-year-old man who came to Singapore from Indonesia with pneumonia, in the hope the treatment here could help him.

I don’t know them personally. Neither, in all likelihood, do you. Why did I – and maybe you? – care enough to shed a tear for them?

Because, because, because… where do I begin?

Maybe I’m starkly reminded that I am mortal, and who knows if maybe there’s a bit of fear creeping into my consciousness.

Maybe I’m grieving for my nation, my Singapore. All the effort, all the sacrifice so far – and yet still we lost two, with more probably to come. It feels like a gut punch, a bigger blow than any of the many we’ve taken in the coronavirus journey.

Maybe it’s difficult to reconcile the power of prayer with the sting of death.

I think it’s okay to admit, even as faith-filled Christians, there is much about this world that we cannot fully comprehend.

Not just okay – it’s something that’s necessary to admit, because if we’ve really got everything figured out, then our faith would be no faith at all.

But no, faith is a conviction of things not seen (Hebrews 11:1), a leaning not on our own understanding (Proverbs 4:6).

How does that work?

What I see is hopelessness. But through the lens of faith, I acknowledge that these are reminders that we need Hope beyond anything the world can offer (Psalm 42:11).

What I see is the terror of pestilence. But the reminder of faith is that “the eye of the Lord is on those who fear Him, on those who hope in His steadfast love” (Psalm 33:18).

What I see is the earth giving way and the mountains falling into the heart of the sea. But with feet of faith, where I go is to the river of God – the holy place where the Most High dwells (Psalm 46:2-4).

The flags of faith we fly today must fly at half-mast.

We mourn because this human condition – frail bodies under unceasing attack – warrants mourning. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted (Matthew 5:4).

But we need to understand that as believers, mourning cannot last forever. Doing so means we are forever bound by the transience of this body, the sting of death, the curse of the grave.

And so, we have the choice whether to sink deeper into the pit of despair, or to take His hand as He offers to pull us out of the pit.

His anger is but for a moment,
But His favour is for life;
Weeping may endure for a night,
But joy comes in the morning. (Psalm 30:5)

All the signs of the End of this Age, as I see it, feel like they’re falling into place.

It is time to get our houses in order, time to reflect and repent and time to preach the Gospel, because this hopeless world needs hope like never before.

This night is ending soon. Morning will bring with it joy; the Spirit and the Bride say, come.

Come, Lord Jesus.