o taste and see that YHWH is good He comes to those who fear Him and rescues them; He is near to those who seek Him His ways are beyond the soul, the eyes, He’s bidden us to come find Him in all the vast avenues of life. when the soul has journeyed beyond the edge, that cliff edge of understanding— and walked that downward path to the crevices of weakness winding, winding down into the hole without a crown. what has been carved over millenniums in the gorge between life and death? what hand has shaped the path spiraling into to emptiness? reason turns its nose from the litter and decaying; faith shields her eyes from the vulgar still displaying; the body cringes, repulsed, reflexing within; what has happened to the soul in all its beauty, all its innocence? rivers and streams once her bounty, mountains, hills, and valleys low, lands, and oceans, kingdoms, skies, every meadow, every knoll once then, and now, is tugging the heart like a child’s hand but this isn’t a world for children anymore, no, these are the valleys of desolation rank with bodies of indiscretion; secrets locked down deep rotting like a corpse secret souls keep and never, ever open up; heirlooms of ancestry, walls and wounds of blood; the friends of our community carrying chains and chains of judgment; the barrels of our wrath and spite broken, spilt on the sands, as wild animals feast on feces our only hope, our only nourishment; and with me, all the world, swallows hard the heavy lump violated by our violation festering still in our seven stomachs; and we attempt to sing, to whistle, to whisper hope in the void below somewhere far above the songbird flies as we grasp for a second note; we fight but courage dies torn to pieces by wolves of rote. and i ask you here, where is He, where, that good Father of which we once spoke? can you even find one shred of evidence of souls dressed, encloaked in linens, given freely from a wounded hand forever ever open? i don’t know ‘bout you but i’m gunna find where blood, honey, and leaven mix to bake bread, mull wine, and brew spirits strong enough to lift us from internal armageddon; where open wounds speak soothing words and affection breaks attention to infection, drawing our ear, our eye, our mind into a lovely open vision, fresh water bubbles up from deeper wells, deeper still than the ones jacob built or moses spilt through heartrocks hardened fast, the hallways of our hearts open to a vast, vast love, come here, come now, come on horses and chariots with thousands upon thousands who bow and run all at once, to the voice whose beckon restores innocence with love-filled, tender consequences fit for my good, fit for a king carrying a son on his shoulders love touching unlovely, lifting affection, effecting soil into a life of resurrection, watered with oil, nourished with light, bursting into an army brilliant and white cleaning, cleansing, working, building, remaking all that’s wrong into right, right now. and i won’t blame you, if you bow out here, ‘too good to be true’ is the sign of a wounded ear as the gavel, the sword, the hand, and the wound, work as one to rebuild, rejoice, renew; as the soul’s rift becomes a landing strip for the decent of grace in the face of our Father- in-skin always facing facing ‘n kindly remakin’ us, every bruise, every crevice, everything, the soul learns again to speak, to own, to fly higher and higher as the gaze of her Father honors her again with mounts and fields, rivers, lakes, and oceans, all blowing, bowing, roaring and clapping in her honor, the honor of honors, to be restored in love, to be made again in the gaze of God, with that smile He wraps a thousand generations in a word spoke by Three and touching every one in one little act of faith, we (and our world) are released in hope, bled in love, found and planted, entwined forever in this never, ever ending affection, our beginning, middle, and end.
YHWH, my Father (Part V)
YHWH, my Father (Part V)
YHWH, my Father (Part V)
o taste and see that YHWH is good He comes to those who fear Him and rescues them; He is near to those who seek Him His ways are beyond the soul, the eyes, He’s bidden us to come find Him in all the vast avenues of life. when the soul has journeyed beyond the edge, that cliff edge of understanding— and walked that downward path to the crevices of weakness winding, winding down into the hole without a crown. what has been carved over millenniums in the gorge between life and death? what hand has shaped the path spiraling into to emptiness? reason turns its nose from the litter and decaying; faith shields her eyes from the vulgar still displaying; the body cringes, repulsed, reflexing within; what has happened to the soul in all its beauty, all its innocence? rivers and streams once her bounty, mountains, hills, and valleys low, lands, and oceans, kingdoms, skies, every meadow, every knoll once then, and now, is tugging the heart like a child’s hand but this isn’t a world for children anymore, no, these are the valleys of desolation rank with bodies of indiscretion; secrets locked down deep rotting like a corpse secret souls keep and never, ever open up; heirlooms of ancestry, walls and wounds of blood; the friends of our community carrying chains and chains of judgment; the barrels of our wrath and spite broken, spilt on the sands, as wild animals feast on feces our only hope, our only nourishment; and with me, all the world, swallows hard the heavy lump violated by our violation festering still in our seven stomachs; and we attempt to sing, to whistle, to whisper hope in the void below somewhere far above the songbird flies as we grasp for a second note; we fight but courage dies torn to pieces by wolves of rote. and i ask you here, where is He, where, that good Father of which we once spoke? can you even find one shred of evidence of souls dressed, encloaked in linens, given freely from a wounded hand forever ever open? i don’t know ‘bout you but i’m gunna find where blood, honey, and leaven mix to bake bread, mull wine, and brew spirits strong enough to lift us from internal armageddon; where open wounds speak soothing words and affection breaks attention to infection, drawing our ear, our eye, our mind into a lovely open vision, fresh water bubbles up from deeper wells, deeper still than the ones jacob built or moses spilt through heartrocks hardened fast, the hallways of our hearts open to a vast, vast love, come here, come now, come on horses and chariots with thousands upon thousands who bow and run all at once, to the voice whose beckon restores innocence with love-filled, tender consequences fit for my good, fit for a king carrying a son on his shoulders love touching unlovely, lifting affection, effecting soil into a life of resurrection, watered with oil, nourished with light, bursting into an army brilliant and white cleaning, cleansing, working, building, remaking all that’s wrong into right, right now. and i won’t blame you, if you bow out here, ‘too good to be true’ is the sign of a wounded ear as the gavel, the sword, the hand, and the wound, work as one to rebuild, rejoice, renew; as the soul’s rift becomes a landing strip for the decent of grace in the face of our Father- in-skin always facing facing ‘n kindly remakin’ us, every bruise, every crevice, everything, the soul learns again to speak, to own, to fly higher and higher as the gaze of her Father honors her again with mounts and fields, rivers, lakes, and oceans, all blowing, bowing, roaring and clapping in her honor, the honor of honors, to be restored in love, to be made again in the gaze of God, with that smile He wraps a thousand generations in a word spoke by Three and touching every one in one little act of faith, we (and our world) are released in hope, bled in love, found and planted, entwined forever in this never, ever ending affection, our beginning, middle, and end.