David Wilkerson – The Watchman Who Wept

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Introduction

After I got sober 20 years ago, I was on fire for Jesus. I replaced alcohol with God or one addiction for another. I joined a men’s group and one of them worked for Teen Challenge. That’s where I was introduced to David Wilkerson. I downloaded every sermon I could possibly find and listened to David nightly on an iPod.

The most famous sermon of all that he did was called “Anguish”. I felt his heart and listened intently to his sorrow of mankind and the direction we were heading. I learned so much about the Bible through David and listening to his sermons that I thought it would be fitting to do a show on this great man.

David changed my life. He was there when I needed answers. I was so hungry for the gospel but couldn’t understand it, but David showed me enough for the time being. I now know why I have built a heart for the lord. It was David and his heart. He showed me the God that I know.

Part 1 – The Gutter Parish

When God calls a man, He rarely calls him into comfort. He calls him into fire. He calls him into tears. And so it was with David Wilkerson. A country preacher in Pennsylvania, restless before the Lord, fell to his knees one evening and prayed a dangerous prayer: “Lord, break my heart for what breaks Yours.” Not long after, he opened a magazine article describing seven gang members on trial for murder in New York City. He saw their faces—hard, young, already lost. He felt the wound of God, and he could not shake it. Within days, he sold his television, gave away his evenings, and sought God in prayer. Out of those midnight hours came the voice: “Go to New York.”

He obeyed. He left the safety of small-town preaching and walked into the courts, the prisons, the alleys, and the tenements. And there, among the broken, he found his true parish. He called it the gutter.

In his book The Little People, Wilkerson tore away the illusion of childhood innocence in the slums. He wrote: “The little people are born old. There is hardly anything new about them. They are conceived in the hates and shames and sins of their parents. The body that should harbor them becomes an enemy that feeds them drugs, disease, alcohol. These little people cry when they are born, but not with any hope of being heard and helped. They come into the world with a snarl because they are born wishing they were dead.”

This was the reality of his New York parish: addicts raising addicts, prostitutes raising the next generation of the forgotten, fathers gone, mothers drunk, children cast into the streets like refuse. He said: “My parish is the gutter, and you won’t find any children living in it. There are only people, big ones and little ones. The big people are the addicts, the muggers, the prostitutes, the liars, the drug pushers, the burglars, the alcoholics, the con artists—none of them very old in years, but terribly old in misery.”

Think about that: “terribly old in misery.” What Paul called being “dead in trespasses and sins,” Wilkerson saw in the eyes of children who had never known love. They were not only poor—they were spiritually gutted. No wonder gang leaders like Nicky Cruz would later confess they were filled with rage, demons of hatred screaming in their souls.

But Wilkerson did not go into the gutter with sociology or psychology. He went with the cross. He carried a simple Bible, and he preached Jesus Christ and Him crucified. And the Spirit bore witness. Hardened gang members wept, heroin addicts fell to their knees, and the forgotten little people began to hope. Out of these encounters came The Cross and the Switchblade, a testimony that would shake the world, proving again that the Gospel is still the power of God unto salvation.

Yet Wilkerson never forgot the gutter. He reminded the church that the real parish was not the pews of suburban comfort but the streets where children were perishing. He stood as a trumpet against the apathy of a church that had forgotten the words of Jesus: “Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God” (Mark 10:14).

To Wilkerson, those words had to be rewritten for the slums: “Let the little people come to Me.” He declared that Jesus was still bending down into the alleys, still reaching for the addicts, still gathering the children no one wanted.

And so we begin here—with the gutter. Because if we do not see what he saw, if we do not feel what he felt, then we will never understand the fire that drove him to weep over America, to thunder against sin, to prophesy judgment. Wilkerson was not a man chasing headlines—he was a man pierced by the cries of the little people. And that wound shaped everything that came after.

Part 2 – The Voice of Crisis

When a prophet walks among the people, he does not choose his subjects. God puts them in his path. For Wilkerson, it was not only the little people in the slums—it was the rising tide of despair sweeping America’s youth.

In 1978, Wilkerson released a book with a single word on the cover: Suicide. The title itself was a trumpet. He confessed he had resisted writing it, calling the subject morbid, heavy, too much for a preacher to bear. But the Holy Spirit pressed him until he could not escape. Why? Because teenagers were dying. In his crusades, Wilkerson would ask a simple question: “How many of you have thought of taking your life?” And he said, “Each time I asked this pointed question, at least ten percent of them raised their hands in confession.”

That means in every auditorium, in every rally, dozens stood on the edge of eternity—some planning to end their lives within days. He wrote: “Last year this nation experienced a 200 percent increase in youth suicides. Thousands of teenagers have killed themselves, and hundreds of thousands of young adults attempt suicide each year. It is fast becoming the number one killer of youth in our country, second only to auto accidents.”

Wilkerson knew many of those “accidents” were not accidents at all. Pill-crazed youth, drunk and numb, were using cars as weapons to disguise their suicides so their parents would not bear the shame. He saw through it. He named it. He wept over it.

The stories in his book were raw: A father stepping out to collect the morning paper only to find his son hanging from the porch. A fifteen-year-old girl crying, “My mother killed herself, and I couldn’t forgive her. So I decided tonight was the night to get even with her by killing myself. But tonight Jesus took away my hate. I will never kill myself now. Jesus has given me a new hope.”

Another teen confessed, “My drug-addicted brother was murdered. I loved him so much. I got mad at God for allowing it to happen. Suicide was going to be my way of getting back at God for being a killer. But not anymore. I forgive! Never again will I allow Satan to make suicide look attractive.”

These were not statistics. They were souls Wilkerson met face to face, night after night. He called it an epidemic of despair, and he linked it directly to the collapse of family, the bondage of addiction, and the filth of a culture that fed children poison. He wrote: “Young addicts, alcoholics, and homosexuals are all candidates for suicide. Thousands of young people are choked by demonic habits that have ruined their lives. They look in the mirror and see their bodies wasting, their families grieving, and they think suicide is the only escape left.”

But Wilkerson would not leave them in despair. He thundered that Jesus Christ had already paid for their sins, that their crucifixion had been carried out at Calvary. “They don’t seem to know Jesus already paid for it all,” he said. That was his cry: to replace the spirit of death with the Spirit of life.

He also pointed to broken homes as a breeding ground of suicide. Millions of divorces, millions of children caught in the crossfire, their hearts shredded by betrayal. He wrote: “Splitting, breaking-up parents are provoking children to unbelievable anger.” He saw mute daughters, paralyzed sons, children withdrawing into shells of silence—casualties of the family war.

This is why Wilkerson’s voice matters today. Because what he warned of in 1978 has multiplied a hundredfold in our generation. The suicide epidemic he named has now become a global plague, intensified by digital addiction, pornography, and the isolation of a screen-based world. What he saw then, we now reap in full.

And here is the prophetic weight: he did not describe these things as mere sociology. He named them as demonic. He saw Satan targeting the youth, seeking to rob them of their inheritance before they could even hear the gospel. But Wilkerson also saw Christ as the Deliverer, the One who steps into despair with resurrection life. He wrote: “Jesus—the only cure.”

The voice of crisis was not only a diagnosis. It was a plea. It was Wilkerson standing on the edge of the abyss, shouting to a generation rushing toward death: Stop. Look to Christ. He has already borne your cross. Live.

Part 3 – The Vision and Judgment on America

The prophet does not remain in one corner. When he has wept over the addict and prayed over the broken child, he must also lift his eyes to the city, the nation, and the world. So it was with David Wilkerson. After years of walking the streets of New York, he was given a vision—not of one man or one city, but of America itself standing before the judgment seat of God.

In 1973, he recorded what he simply called The Vision. Three years later he expanded it into Judgment on America and How to Prepare. What he saw was not a distant allegory—it was precise, direct, and terrifying. He warned of five judgments that were coming like waves:

Economic collapse. Natural disasters. A flood of filth. Persecution against the church. And finally, a point of no return.

He wrote that America had already crossed that threshold. “Our nation has reached the point of no return. We have sinned away our day of grace. The judgments of God are no longer something to be postponed—they are upon us.”

Decades later, in God’s Plan to Protect His People in the Coming Depression, Wilkerson’s trumpet grew louder: “Ominous storm clouds have gathered above our nation, and they’re mounting higher and higher. There is no magic bullet to save us. God is about to chasten the nations of the world through an economic holocaust—and His sword is already unsheathed!”

He pointed back to the Great Depression of 1929, when leaders reassured the public with empty words. Two days before the crash, Charles Mitchell, chairman of National City Bank, declared: “I know of nothing wrong with the stock market or with the underlying business and credit structure.” Yet the nation fell into ruin overnight.

Wilkerson warned that history was repeating itself. He saw the same blindness in leaders, the same arrogance in markets, the same deaf ear in the church. He thundered: “America is on a fast track to a full-blown depression that could end up much worse than the Great Depression of the 1930s. And this depression cannot be stopped!”

What made his words prophetic was not only the economic foresight—it was the moral diagnosis. He tied financial collapse to spiritual collapse. Just as Israel’s idols brought Babylon to its gates, so America’s idols would topple Wall Street. He wrote: “God is about to chasten the nations of the world through an economic holocaust.”

And he named the idols. Prosperity preaching. National pride. Political corruption. The worship of entertainment. He said the very things we exalted would become the instruments of our undoing.

Look around now—his vision is unfolding. Economic confusion grips the globe. BRICS rises as an alternative system, threatening the dollar’s supremacy. The Federal Reserve grows fatter even as debt balloons beyond comprehension. Nations tremble like dominoes: Russia in war, China in debt, America drowning in division. Everything Wilkerson foresaw is converging.

But hear this: his message was never simply doom. He wrote: “This book is not about the bad news facing our nation. Rather, it is about the good and comforting news of God’s covenant promises to preserve and protect his people through every storm.”

He reminded the remnant that when judgment falls, God does not abandon His own. He preserves Zion. He protects through prayer. He provides when markets fail. He said preparation was not stockpiling or fleeing, but heart consecration: “God’s plan is heart preparation first.”

So Wilkerson’s vision was twofold: a trumpet of judgment and a whisper of hope. The trumpet: America will fall. The whisper: God’s people will stand.

And that is the voice of a prophet. He sees calamity before the politicians. He feels grief before the economists. He hears God’s roar before the journalists. And then he dares to declare it—not to terrify, but to awaken.

Part 4 – The Golden Calf & the Flood of Filth

When Moses descended from Sinai, he found Israel dancing around a golden calf. The people had grown impatient waiting on God, so they turned their gold into an idol and called it worship. Wilkerson declared that America had done the same. He warned that our nation had forged a golden calf out of prosperity, materialism, and Wall Street. He wrote: “America is on a fast track to a full-blown depression that could end up much worse than the Great Depression of the 1930s. And this depression cannot be stopped!”

He said the calf would fall. That markets would shake, that the financial empire we trusted would collapse. “God is about to chasten the nations of the world through an economic holocaust—and his sword is already unsheathed.” When the idol collapses, those who trusted it will be crushed with it. But those who cling to Christ will endure.

Wilkerson thundered that this was not only an economic issue but a spiritual one. Money had become America’s god. The stock ticker was our liturgy, the banks our temples, the investors our priests. We measured blessing by accumulation, not by holiness. And so, like Israel, we would be judged by the idol we worshiped.

But prosperity was not the only idol. He warned of another flood—not of water, but of filth. He wrote that a torrent of immorality would sweep across the nation unlike anything before. Pornography, violence, witchcraft, and occult fascination would saturate television, movies, and music. He said demons would ride upon the airwaves, filling the homes of the unsuspecting, corrupting even children.

And it has come to pass. What Wilkerson called a flood has become an ocean. He foresaw that sex and occultism would not stay in the shadows but would parade openly as entertainment. He said the very instruments meant to educate and uplift would be hijacked to degrade and enslave.

Listen to how he described it in his later writings: “The upright morality of the past was being mocked—and the result was disastrous. Smoking, drunkenness, foul language, adultery, and obsession with sex swept the nation like wildfire.” This was not a sociologist’s report—it was a prophet’s lament. He saw sin saturating the land, and he knew judgment would follow.

He tied this directly to the destruction of the home. In Suicide, he exposed how the flood of filth was destroying families and driving children to despair: “Young addicts, alcoholics, and homosexuals are all candidates for suicide. Thousands of young people are choked by demonic habits that have ruined their lives.” The fruit of the flood was death.

And again, Wilkerson did not speak of these things as mere cultural trends. He called them demonic assignments. He named Satan as the architect of the flood, filling minds and homes with darkness, grooming a generation for destruction. He warned that witchcraft, occult fascination, and pornography were not just sins—they were entry points for demons.

But here is the power of his prophecy: Wilkerson also declared that the flood would not drown the remnant. Just as God preserved Noah through the waters, He would preserve His people through the flood of filth. In Knowing God by Name, Wilkerson reminded us that God reveals Himself in times of crisis: “Each of God’s names reveals a defining quality of His nature. He revealed His names to His people only as they needed them—in their moments of deepest crisis.”

So when the flood rises, God reveals Himself as Jehovah Nissi—the Lord our Banner, the One who fights for us. When filth surrounds, He reveals Himself as Jehovah Mekaddishkem—the Lord who sanctifies. When idols fall, He reveals Himself as Jehovah Jireh—the Provider who is not shaken by markets.

Thus, the Golden Calf and the Flood of Filth are not only judgments—they are tests. They reveal who our God truly is. For those who cling to the calf, collapse. For those who cling to Christ, deliverance.

Part 5 – The Drift of the Church

If judgment begins at the house of God, then the church must hear the first trumpet blast. Wilkerson was never afraid to turn his gaze inward, to confront not just the sins of the world but the compromises of God’s people. He thundered against pulpits that had grown soft, ministries that had grown fat, and sanctuaries that had become theaters instead of altars.

He wrote of a church drifting away from Christ Himself, trading the presence of the Spirit for the applause of men. He said: “The church was becoming ready to embrace the devil himself if he came dressed in religious robes.” That single sentence carried the weight of Jeremiah crying, “The prophets prophesy falsely, and the priests rule by their means; and my people love to have it so: and what will ye do in the end thereof?” (Jer. 5:31).

Wilkerson saw revivals built on showmanship rather than repentance, prosperity preaching that reduced God to a vending machine, and shallow gatherings that entertained but did not transform. In Beyond the Cross and the Switchblade, he admitted how easy it was for even a sincere preacher to get swept into the “rat race” of ministry, trading intimacy with God for celebrity and success. He confessed: “I had to quit the rat race. I had to step back from the limelight, for my spirit was being drained.”

That honesty gave him the authority to rebuke others. He had lived it. He had felt the pull. And he had chosen to step away so that Christ might remain at the center. But he warned that many others would not step away. They would continue feeding on fame, money, and applause—until they no longer even recognized the Spirit they claimed to serve.

Wilkerson also rebuked pastors who silenced prophetic voices in their own churches. In God’s Plan to Protect His People, he lamented: “I spoke at a ministers’ conference recently, warning that we’re seeing the beginning of a disastrous depression. After I finished my tearful warning, one minister was overheard saying: ‘I hope the pastors who heard this tonight have better sense than to preach such foolishness from their pulpits.’” He wept because shepherds were scoffing while wolves devoured the flock.

But Wilkerson did not only rebuke leaders—he rebuked the people. He warned that many believers loved ear-tickling messages. He declared that the lukewarm pew was as guilty as the corrupt pulpit, for both sought comfort over holiness. In Suicide, he recounted how countless teens confessed their despair, and then he asked: where were their churches? Why were these children not being discipled, mentored, prayed for? He exposed the truth: the church had abandoned its duty, and Satan was reaping the harvest.

To Wilkerson, the drift of the church was worse than the corruption of the world. Because the world sins in ignorance, but the church sins in light. He compared it to Israel in the days of the prophets: God’s people building altars while committing idolatry, offering sacrifices while plotting wickedness. He cried out that the church in America was in danger of being judged more severely than the nation itself.

Yet his rebukes were always tied to hope. He never preached condemnation without a call back to intimacy with Christ. In Hungry for More of Jesus, he wrote: “The greatest danger facing the church today is losing the hunger for His presence. Programs, buildings, crowds—these cannot substitute for Him. Only Jesus satisfies.” His answer to drift was not anger but hunger—hunger for more of Christ, hunger for the Spirit’s presence, hunger for holiness.

Wilkerson’s tears over the church were not the tears of an enemy—they were the tears of a lover. Like Paul writing to Corinth, he travailed “until Christ be formed” in God’s people. But he warned: if the church refuses to repent, if it refuses to hunger, it will be swept away in the very judgments it ignores.

Part 6 – The Final Awakening

David Wilkerson did not weep only for judgment—he wept for redemption. He saw the storms, but he also saw the dawn. To him, calamity was not the end but the refining fire of God, burning away the dross until only a purified bride remained.

In God’s Plan to Protect His People in the Coming Depression, he declared: “This book is not about the bad news facing our nation. Rather, it is about the good and comforting news of God’s covenant promises to preserve and protect his people through every storm.” He believed the remnant would not merely survive but awaken.

Wilkerson saw a final move of God coming—not through celebrity preachers or televised revivals, but through ordinary, consecrated saints. He said true revival would come in hidden prayer rooms, in broken homes restored, in prodigals brought back by grace. He believed that the flood of filth, the collapse of prosperity, and the drift of the church would set the stage for an awakening rooted not in spectacle but in holiness.

He compared it to Israel in exile. When Babylon burned the temple and carried the people captive, a remnant rose up in tears, longing for Zion. So too, Wilkerson believed America’s calamities would produce a people who hungered not for gold or pleasure, but for God Himself.

In Hungry for More of Jesus, he cried: “The greatest need in the church today is not more programs, not more strategies, but more of Him. To know His presence. To be consumed with His love. To hunger for His holiness.” This hunger, he said, would mark the awakening. Not crowds, but Christ. Not applause, but anointing.

Wilkerson also pointed to suffering as the womb of revival. In God’s Plan he wrote: “Will God revive His church in the coming depression? Yes—awakened through suffering.” He knew that comfort lulls the church to sleep, but calamity shakes it awake. He was not glorifying pain, but he recognized that brokenness produces dependence, and dependence produces revival.

This is why he never called believers to stockpile or flee. He called them to sanctify. He wrote: “God’s plan is heart preparation first.” He said the true shelter in coming storms was not a bunker but a prayer closet, not gold but the Word, not fear but faith.

Wilkerson foresaw that the final awakening would not be for everyone. He spoke of a remnant. Just as Gideon’s army was reduced to 300, just as only a handful returned from Babylon, so too in the last days many in the church would fall away. But the remnant—the hungry, the broken, the holy—would shine like flames in the darkness.

And this is why his voice still matters. Because even as he thundered judgment, he whispered hope. He looked at America collapsing under its idols, yet he saw a purified bride rising from the ashes. He looked at a church drowning in compromise, yet he saw a remnant burning with hunger for Jesus. He looked at calamity, and he saw awakening.

Part 7 – A Pastor of Promises

Every prophet must also be a pastor. For what good is a trumpet blast if it leaves the flock trembling without shelter? David Wilkerson was not only the weeping watchman; he was also the tender shepherd who placed weapons of hope in the hands of God’s people. He knew that if calamity was coming, then the remnant must be armed—not with swords of steel, but with the promises of God.

In Knowing God by Name, Wilkerson reminded the church that God reveals His character most fully in times of crisis. He wrote: “Each of God’s names reveals a defining quality of His nature and character. He revealed His names to His people only as they needed them—in their moments of deepest crisis.”

When Abraham faced the knife over Isaac, God revealed Himself as Jehovah Jireh, the Provider. When Israel trembled before enemies, He revealed Himself as Jehovah Nissi, the Banner of victory. When the people wandered in fear, He became Jehovah Rohi, the Shepherd. And when filth and corruption threatened to swallow the land, He revealed Himself as Jehovah Mekaddishkem, the Sanctifier.

Wilkerson told the church: in your darkest hour, you will come to know God by His name. He declared that the final awakening would not rest on theology classes or polished sermons, but on the lived revelation of who God is to His people in trial.

He carried this pastoral spirit into My Favorite Faith Building Promises, where he gathered the scriptures that had sustained him through decades of trial. He wrote: “There is no greater source of comfort anywhere than God’s holy Word. Mixed with faith, these promises have the power to lift your spirit and infuse new hope.”

There he listed promises of deliverance, protection, provision, forgiveness, and eternal life. He placed them in the hands of believers like a soldier handing out swords before battle. He knew that as judgment came, many would faint in fear. But if the Word of God was hidden in their hearts, they would stand.

And so Wilkerson preached promises as fiercely as he preached judgment. He wanted the people to know both sides of God’s covenant: His holy wrath against sin and His unbreakable love for His own. He wrote: “If you are a true believer, you are the apple of God’s eye, his beloved bride. And he has given you an ironclad promise to keep you to the very end!”

That was his anchor: God keeps His people. Even as America crumbles, even as idols collapse, even as persecution rises, the remnant will not be forsaken. They will know God not as an abstract idea, but by His name, by His presence, by His promises.

Wilkerson knew the storm was coming. But he also knew the ark was prepared. He knew Babylon would fall. But he also knew Zion would stand. And so, with the tenderness of a pastor, he placed the promises of God in the hands of his people and said: Take these. You will need them in the days ahead. Hide them in your heart, for they are your life.

Part 8 – Hungry for More of Jesus

If you strip away the visions, the warnings, the prophecies, and the tears—you find one burning center in David Wilkerson’s life: Jesus Himself. For Wilkerson, nothing mattered apart from Him. Not revivals. Not ministries. Not even visions of judgment. All of it pointed to one thing—being consumed with Christ.

In his book Hungry for More of Jesus, he poured out this burden. He wrote not as a prophet thundering from Sinai, but as a lover pleading with the church: “The greatest need in the church today is not more programs, not more strategies, but more of Him. To know His presence. To be consumed with His love. To hunger for His holiness.”

Wilkerson warned that the greatest danger in the last days would not be persecution, not even economic collapse, but losing hunger for God. He said the church could grow rich, famous, and full of activity—and yet starve for lack of His presence. That starvation, he declared, was the greatest judgment of all.

He reminded believers of Christ’s words in Revelation: “Because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spue thee out of my mouth.” To Wilkerson, lukewarmness was not just sin—it was treason. He wrote: “You can sit in a church, sing in a choir, work in a ministry—and still not hunger for Him. Without hunger, you will fall away when the storm comes.”

He cried out that only a desperate, consuming hunger for Christ could sustain God’s people in the final shaking. This hunger was not optional. It was survival. He compared it to manna in the wilderness: yesterday’s portion could not sustain today. Every morning, fresh hunger must drive us to the table of the Lord.

And he testified from his own life. He told of the nights when fear, depression, and temptation nearly crushed him. He told of times when his ministry seemed to collapse and his family suffered. And in every crisis, it was not vision, not intellect, not even past victories that carried him—it was hunger for Jesus. That hunger kept him at the cross. That hunger kept him weeping in prayer. That hunger kept him burning when others grew cold.

Wilkerson believed this hunger would mark the final awakening. Not massive crusades. Not grand buildings. Not celebrity preachers. But a hidden people, on their faces, crying for more of Jesus. He wrote: “Programs cannot save you. Crowds cannot keep you. But His presence will carry you to the end.”

And so his last word to the church was not primarily judgment, but invitation. Come. Be hungry. Be desperate. Be consumed. For in the days ahead, only those who thirst for Him will find the Living Water.

Part 9 – Legacy of a Watchman

A true watchman never retires. He does not lay down his trumpet until God Himself removes it from his lips. David Wilkerson carried the burden until the very end. From the slums of New York to the pulpit of Times Square Church, from the gangs and addicts to world leaders and pastors, he wept, he warned, and he pleaded.

He was mocked often. Many called him too harsh, too extreme, too sorrowful. Some dismissed his prophecies as paranoia, his warnings as doom-saying. Yet time itself has vindicated him. The flood of filth he foresaw now saturates every screen. The golden calf he declared would fall trembles on its legs of debt and greed. The suicide epidemic he named has become a worldwide plague. The drift of the church he rebuked has only deepened into entertainment and compromise.

Yet alongside judgment, his writings remain saturated with hope. He never left God’s people without promises, without names, without the call to hunger. He was not a prophet of despair—he was a prophet of holiness. His message was never, “The end is here.” It was always, “The end is here—therefore cling to Christ.”

And then, suddenly, his trumpet ceased. On April 27, 2011, David Wilkerson died in a car crash in Texas. Just like that—the watchman was gone. His wife, Gwen, survived the crash but passed a year later. To the world, it looked like an abrupt and tragic end. But to the remnant who had heard his voice, it was simply the closing of a chapter. His words remained. His tears remained. His legacy lived on.

In his final blogs and sermons, even days before his death, his message was the same: judgment was coming, but God’s people need not fear. One of his last entries read: “God has never failed to act but in goodness and love. When all means fail—His love prevails.” That was the heartbeat of the watchman. Judgment yes—but always mercy. Calamity yes—but always covenant.

And his legacy is this: that he stood as Jeremiah in New York, Ezekiel in Times Square, Paul to the addicts and the broken, John on Patmos seeing visions of America’s future. He was mocked, but he was faithful. He was rejected, but he endured. He was a watchman—and he wept.

Now, years after his death, his words still circulate online. His books are still read. His sermons still convict. And his warnings still echo. The man is gone, but the fire remains. And that is the true measure of a prophet: when his voice continues to awaken even after he sleeps in Christ.

Part 10 – The Closing Trumpet

The watchman has sounded the alarm. The golden calf trembles. The flood of filth rises. The church drifts. The youth perish. And the storm clouds of economic judgment gather thick over the nations. David Wilkerson’s trumpet has ceased, but its echo still thunders in the Spirit.

So what will we do with his voice? That is the question left to us. Do we scoff, like the pastors who whispered, “Surely this is foolishness”? Do we distract ourselves, like Israel dancing before its calf? Do we harden our hearts, like Pharaoh when Moses raised his staff? Or do we tremble and repent, clinging to the promises of God in the hour of shaking?

Wilkerson’s life is a testimony that one man’s obedience can change the course of multitudes. A country preacher knelt in prayer, and from that kneeling came Teen Challenge, saving thousands. From that kneeling came The Cross and the Switchblade, awakening millions. From that kneeling came The Vision, warning nations. From that kneeling came Hungry for More of Jesus, calling the remnant into intimacy.

It all began on his knees. And it is there we must end.

For the trumpet is not just Wilkerson’s—it is now ours. The warnings are not just his—they belong to the generation living in their fulfillment. The tears are not just his—they are the Spirit’s, weeping through us if we will let Him.

The Apostle Paul said, “I kept back nothing that was profitable unto you, but have shewed you, and have taught you publicly, and from house to house… I am pure from the blood of all men. For I have not shunned to declare unto you all the counsel of God.” (Acts 20:20–27). Wilkerson could say the same. He did not shun to declare. He did not water down the truth. He did not flatter. He wept. He warned. He loved.

And now the mantle falls to us. The closing trumpet is not despair—it is a call to action. To repent. To awaken. To hunger for more of Jesus. To prepare our hearts, not our barns. To build altars, not empires. To cling to the Word, not to Wall Street. To stand as a remnant in a collapsing world.

David Wilkerson’s life shouts across the years: This is not the time for comfort. This is the time for consecration. This is not the time for fear. This is the time for faith. This is not the time for lukewarm religion. This is the time to be consumed with Christ.

The watchman has sounded his cry. The scroll is opened. The vision is unfolding. The question remains—will we hear, and will we obey?

Bibliography

• Wilkerson, David. Beyond the Cross and the Switchblade. Old Tappan, NJ: Chosen Books, 1974.
• God’s Plan to Protect His People in the Coming Depression. Lindale, TX: Wilkerson Trust Publications, 1998.
• Hungry for More of Jesus: Experiencing His Presence in These Troubled Times. Tarrytown, NY: Chosen Books, 1992.
• Judgment on America and How to Prepare. New York: Pyramid Books, 1976.
• Knowing God by Name: Names of God That Bring Hope and Healing. Colorado Springs: Chosen Books, 2000.
• My Favorite Faith-Building Promises. Lindale, TX: David Wilkerson Publications, 2007.
• Suicide. Lindale, TX: David Wilkerson Publications, 1978.
• The Cross and the Switchblade. New York: Jove/Hawthorn, 1963.
• The Little People. New York: Pyramid Books, 1966.

Endnotes

1. David Wilkerson, The Little People (New York: Pyramid Books, 1966), 11–12.
2. Wilkerson, Suicide (Lindale, TX: David Wilkerson Publications, 1978), 3–5.
3. Ibid., 17–19.
4. Wilkerson, Judgment on America and How to Prepare (New York: Pyramid Books, 1976), 44–47.
5. David Wilkerson, God’s Plan to Protect His People in the Coming Depression (Lindale, TX: Wilkerson Trust Publications, 1998), 2–4.
6. Ibid., 7–10.
7. Wilkerson, Beyond the Cross and the Switchblade (Old Tappan, NJ: Chosen Books, 1974), 22–25.
8. Wilkerson, Knowing God by Name (Colorado Springs: Chosen Books, 2000), 13.
9. David Wilkerson, My Favorite Faith-Building Promises (Lindale, TX: David Wilkerson Publications, 2007), 4.
10. Wilkerson, Hungry for More of Jesus: Experiencing His Presence in These Troubled Times (Tarrytown, NY: Chosen Books, 1992), 6.
11. Wilkerson, God’s Plan to Protect His People in the Coming Depression, 45.
12. Wilkerson, Hungry for More of Jesus, 20–22.
13. Wilkerson, The Cross and the Switchblade (New York: Jove/Hawthorn, 1963), 85–86.