Show me you are God,
For I am in the pit
And within these seven walls
There is no place to sit.
Show me you are God,
For there is silence still.
All my friends have turned away
And wish me naught but ill.
Show me you are God,
For I am full of wounds
Wrought by your unseeing eye
Fixed upon my tomb.
I’m sorry I’m not a 100% Christian. I cannot eternally pretend that I am at my 100% and eternally praise God. I’d rather be honest and genuine here and make it clear when I absolutely cannot pursue God. Were we not made from dust? I’m just being honest here. Sometimes I argue and get utterly frustrated with Him — like this. I can almost here people brand me a heretic, but to hell with it. I’m just being honest here.
Who beat the brown upon my skin?
Who cleft my teeth and carved my grin?
Who pressed my eyes into my face?
Who stole from me each form of grace?
Who scored and cut my ugly jaw?
Who strung my voice with its caw?
Who struck my scalp with wilting hair?
Who smote me dark and never fair?
Then tell me not, for I am flawed
That “Ye were knit by hands of God.”
Whose wounds are these that I pressed down?
Whose temple bears this thorny crown?
Whose tears fall forth and stir this flood
Of sweat and sin, and my Lord’s blood?
Whose voice was that which trembling cried,
“Behold before me Death has died.”
Which then with final breath began
The restoration of all man?
Who was, who is – and is to be,
Whose name is writ in history;
The King, The Lion, Lord, and Lamb
The one who whispers, “Child, I am.”
– S.S. Bartlett
“Thy kingdom come,” the old man wept
As beneath the clouds he slept
Upon those streets of stone and steel
Where men before their wealth did kneel
“Thy kingdom come,” the lady sighed
Walking past the boys who cried
And raised their hands to shout a word
Which from her youthful days she’d heard.
“Thy kingdom come,” the mother shook
— Her son filed by without a look
To the rattle of some marching band
Spurring him to far-flung lands.
“Thy kingdom come,” the soldier prayed
As the turret spat and sprayed
And scores of lead soared overhead
To count his friends among the dead
“Thy kingdom come,” the surgeon heaved
Before the iron tool could cleave
The struggling boy upon the bed
All swathed in white and rushing red.
“Thy kingdom come,” the small one said,
Scrambling through those fields of dead
Where murderous men had only sown
Those crimson streams of ill renown
Hear us God, thy kingdom come,
Establish yours — Ours overrun.
Thy kingdom come, ours is lost —
And for what prize and at what cost?
Note : For many youth in my country violence, wickedness and war (especially war) have had some sort of a presence and impact in our lives. While war has not affected me directly I have seen its aftereffects ; beggars, blind men, amputees and orphans. This has no disturbed me, but allowed me to acknowledge the violence men have sown themselves and the discord with which we have overridden our lives. It is for this reason that I believe God’s divinity should transcend our ways and be applied in our lives
Cast your net and drag me nearer
Through the ocean’s trying tide,
Take this broken boat and steer her
To the course you’d have me bide.
I am stubborn, blind and beaten,
These rocks have torn my hull and keel
Take these oars my pride has eaten
And teach me Lord to weep and kneel.
Sweep my solemn breath and break it
Drown me in unending light
So should the way before grow graver,
I may dare this ocean’s might.
When the tempest turns towards me,
When the lightning tastes the tide
Hold me, God and split the waters
My admiral, and my guide
With you O God to be my captain
With you to seize this thrashing sea
What ocean’s tempest dare defy us?
Who dare be my enemy?
Image Source : Getty Images
Canst thou near fathom the fret,
The dimensions of the deep?
-As the Great Cartographer set
his map while you were still asleep.
Canst thou fathom the wisdom?
The fire in his eyes-
As he seized the cosmos
And lit the starry skies?
He simply struck his palms.
And spun the web of time,
Clasped the elemental charms
and crafted yours and mine.
Awoken, now we ponder
Doubt his works to see.
Still we gape and wonder
On how they came to be.
Image not owned.
When all else failed,
Friend to foe, oar to knife
And I wailed painfully in strife.
You heard my cries
You did rise.
Accused, Abused, my demise
You saw to it, otherwise,
A plan no mortal can plan,
No mind can master
I learned to fight,
And move a little faster,
And, on that day, indeed
Not mine, But God’s speed.
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