i wrote a poem.
it was like our time, short, sweet
but now its over.

And on the third day he rose
eyes red from creation
a sativa-induced resurrection

And though many searched for him
he was not there
he was already philosophy and smoke

Now, centuries later
millions roll themselves in his dogma
with hopes of getting high

if I will learn best to heed Your presence through the pain,
then keep me in this hell

God, I swear, I don’t care

I need You like crazy and I know that too well,
but some parts of my heart are dead—
no, I think most of them

I’ve brutally damaged the rest
through this pain that I’ve found
in the emptiness of my chest
and I don’t know what to do now;
I am drowning and I need You so bad,
but something in me still keeps fighting You away,
pushing Your hand.

And Your whisper keeps being diminished
by this shouting voice in my head
saying I don’t need You.
But God, I do.

And it hurts
because I’m listening to the screaming voice in my head
saying over and over again that I’m just fine here on my own,
giving the devil my soul
while I dance on the thin line
between cold and warm.

Father, I’m sorry.
Mostly for all the times that I weren’t,
and because I know exactly what I do.

I can see the image of the hammer in my hands again
with Your blood gushing through Your cracked skin
as You hang upon that cross,
the place where You died for my sin.
My shame is thick and maybe so is my pride
because I’m turning away,
turning away from the light of Your bright eyes
and I’m sick of this.

When will the cycle ever end?

God, I love You but the pain in my chest—

And then, just as fog lifts ever so slightly
over a city to reveal the sun again,
You remove the fear I installed inside of my heart.
The voices that speak lies over me are dead.

I awake to the sound of Your voice
and You’re singing over me after all I’ve done.

(After all I’ve done, God, how You still love me after all I’ve done)

You said You saw me there as You hung upon the cross—
limp and ****** and carrying a darkness thicker
than the worst pain we all have ever tasted in this world.

You said You saw me at my worst—
You said You saw me cursing Your Name while I slept on dirt.

You saw me at my worst.

And what’s most amazing is
You saw the blasphemous lies I’ve believed,
I’ve breathed,
I’ve eaten up,
and lived,
and You still died for me on that cross.

Grace.

You saw me at my worst.

And I know I ***** up and fall down
and sometimes I want to stay on this ground
but You tell me You’re here
and that it was still Your joy to die for me
so I could live in Your glory
and it is Your joy to forgive me.

You saw my filthy soul and You still desired to die for me.

How sick,
how twisted,
how disgusting this world has made me feel;

I’ve cheated myself with these fleeting pleasures of sin,
but now You’re here.
You are here and I am made for You,
to live in Your love,
to dance to the sound of Your song,
to dwell in Your presence forever.

You accept me,
You don’t cast me out.
You forgive—leading me to the road of repentance.
I thought it would be dark and heavy
but with my soul paid in full
it isn’t hard to say no to this world.

The enemy has tried to steal my soul,
but the Light of Christ is leading me
to the truth that I’ve come to know.
And I’m knowing it again,
over and over and over again—

Let me, then, leave my heart in Your hands,
and let it stay there.
And if keeping me in this hell will draw me closer to You,
then I will take it and gladly so,
for I’ve tasted the emptiness of this world and Your discipline may hurt—

But God, everything else is worse.

Break me, I beg You, break me until I am whole.

Led down from the tower
Head high and hands bound
Blindfold declined against the wall
Black square pinned to his heart
Eyes afire and shining proud
He sang...

He sang of Caruso, Townes Van Zandt
Pavarotti, Bocelli, Mercury,
Carreras, he sang of Antoine,
Of Sinatra, Lennon, Morrison, Redding
He sang and songbirds paused in flight
He sang like them all

He sang a song of himself
Of leaves of grass, of second comings
Of Byron, and Bharti, and Cummings
He sang of Neruda, and Plath, Tagore
Dickinson, Kamala Das and Naidu
Oh, he sang of them all

He sang of art and beauty
Of Mona Lisa and starry nights
Girls in green dresses and pearls
He sang of Van Gogh, of Picasso
Of Rembrandt, da Vinci
He sang of Michelangelo

He sang of sadness, pain
He sang of My Lai, Sand Creek
Of Guernica and Krystallnacht
He cried and sang of Wounded Knee
Of Katyn Forest, Sabra and Shatila
Oh, he wept as he sang

He sang of history and wonders
He sang of Olduvai and pyramids
Machu Picchu, Tikal, and Angkor Wat
He sang of a great wall, the Taj Mahal
Stonehenge, Easter Isle, Mesa Verde
His song took us to them all

He sang of courage
A song of Bunker Hill, Gettysburg
Of the Alamo, Normandy, Stalingrad
Of Lincoln, Guevara and Dr. King
He sang of Bolivar, Bhutto, Ghandi
He shamed us with their song

He sang his song...
As women sighed and peasants cried
He  sang until the rifles fired, he died
Songbirds fell from the sky
Soldiers broke their guns on stones
And marched into the deep blue sea.

r ~ 4/12/14