The Gates Did Not Prevail by Jeff Callaway
The Gates Did Not Prevail
(Still Standing, Bride Alive)
by Jeff Callaway
Texas Outlaw Poet
The Texas sun beat down on busted ground,
I was a gone, man—nowhere to be found.
Lost in the grip of a devil’s lie,
pistol cold whisper sayin’ time to die.
Rot on my tongue, soul torn apart,
hell was the landlord collectin’ my heart.
I spit one prayer with a smoker’s cough:
“God, save me now—or turn the lights off.”
But the gates did not prevail.
No, the gates did not prevail.
And then—flash. Light cut like steel,
burned my bones, burned what was real.
Our Lady stood, her mantle wide,
Mother’s heart—no place to hide.
Still Standing, Bride Alive.
Then Jesus came, eyes burnin’ fire,
hell fell back, the chains retired.
Pulled me up, out of the ash and dawn,
lonely boy now son reborn.
But the gates did not prevail.
No, the gates did not prevail.
That moment hit—I knew it was true,
He left the flock just to break me through.
Shepherd callin’, I heard His tone,
“Get up, son. It’s time to come home.”
Still Standing, Bride Alive.
And home was a Church I swore was fake,
walls I mocked for tradition’s sake.
But He showed me the keys, showed me the Bride,
truth standin’ tall where the liars hide.
But the gates did not prevail.
No, the gates did not prevail.
The Eucharist—flesh, not play pretend,
heaven on tongue from beginning to end.
Not symbol, not story, but Presence alive,
the Lamb still bleeds, the Lamb still thrives.
Still Standing, Bride Alive.
The Mass don’t change, don’t shift with the breeze,
same song risin’ from the West to the seas.
One sacrifice, one table, one flame,
a billion tongues shoutin’ one name.
But the gates did not prevail.
No, the gates did not prevail.
Without this Church, no Bible to read—
she guarded the Word, she planted the seed.
Canon kept by apostolic hands,
ink turned flesh across the lands.
Still Standing, Bride Alive.
Peter the Rock, unshaken spine,
hell threw fists but it couldn’t unwind.
Two thousand years, the gates still shake,
but the Bride won’t break, she don’t forsake.
But the gates did not prevail.
No, the gates did not prevail.
Seven rivers cuttin’ through my shame,
sacraments flowin’ in Jesus’ name.
Water that drowns, oil that heals,
mercy that bleeds, forgiveness that seals.
Still Standing, Bride Alive.
Tradition and Scripture, hand in glove,
not man’s opinion but Spirit’s love.
Not shifting sand, but anchor stone,
the Magisterium keeps the truth known.
But the gates did not prevail.
No, the gates did not prevail.
Mary whispers, “Do whatever He said,”
Her mantle a shelter, her prayers the bread.
She points to the Son, to the Lamb who saves,
Queen of Heaven, Queen of the brave.
Still Standing, Bride Alive.
And the saints? They ain’t dead—they fight,
voices cryin’ in the darkest night.
Martyrs, mystics, prophets, thieves,
their blood the roots, their faith the leaves.
But the gates did not prevail.
No, the gates did not prevail.
Now I stand in a Church I used to hate,
a prodigal son at the narrow gate.
Catholic faith, the pearl, the prize,
the Bride of Christ with fire in her eyes.
The devil tried—oh, he tried to nail,
but the gates of hell did not prevail.
No—the gates did not prevail.
No, the gates did not prevail.
They told me the Church was dead,
an empty tomb with no stone rolled back,
a relic of incense and Latin dust,
a crown without a head,
a kingdom collapsed.
Still Standing, Bride Alive.
But I’ve walked through fire,
and I’ve seen her breathe,
bleeding saints beneath the steeple beams,
voices breaking chains with rosary beads,
martyrs making hymns out of screams.
No—the gates did not prevail.
No, the gates did not prevail.
They sold me politics dressed as gospel,
a donkey and an elephant gnawing at the manger,
but in Rome I found the Carpenter’s table,
still set, still breaking bread for strangers.
Still Standing, Bride Alive.
I’ve watched priests lift God in trembling hands,
golden chalice, crimson stream,
He said “This is My Body” and it wasn’t metaphor—
it was thunder wrapped in Eucharistic gleam.
No—the gates did not prevail.
No, the gates did not prevail.
Cathedrals cracked, scandals scarred,
wolves in vestments, Judas kissed hard,
but the Bride is no harlot, no politician’s pawn,
she is blood-bought, battle-worn,
her veil lit with dawn.
Still Standing, Bride Alive.
When I stumble to her doors,
reeking of ash, of doubt, of sin,
she does not slam them shut—
she washes me in waters that begin again.
No—the gates did not prevail.
No, the gates did not prevail.
You can burn her libraries,
mock her saints,
chain her altars,
twist her paint.
But she will outlast every empire’s breath,
because her Spouse has conquered death.
Still Standing, Bride Alive.
So take your shots, make your lies,
bury her name in the world’s disguise—
she will not bow, she will not die.
No—the gates did not prevail.
No, the gates did not prevail.
I was lost in the graveyard of false creeds,
starving on poisoned bread,
but Christ dragged me through the wreckage,
and whispered: “Here, eat, and live instead.”
Still Standing, Bride Alive.
Now I kneel with a billion tongues,
one Mass, one faith, one song, one Bride—
crucified with Christ,
resurrected in His side.
And when the smoke clears,
when the world burns down to bone and sky,
one voice will rise,
one Church will cry:
No—the gates did not prevail.
No, the gates did not prevail.
Still Standing, Bride Alive.
“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ,
he is a new creation;
old things have passed away;
behold, all things have become new.”
~ 2 Corinthians 5:17
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