She came home from a long, weary day with an invitation awaiting her -
perched upon her pillowcase - the letters weaved in with gold and silver,
written in a language her mind comprehends, but the words formed more
than mere syllables - something of their message caused her spirit to sing
a melody ancient yet fresh to her heart.
"To Beloved Rose..." it began, and even the mere mention of her name caused her soul to leap.
It was Him.
She had been waiting for Him to call her up, invite her in... to remove Himself
once again from the cloud of unknowing He had been dwelling in that she had grown familiar with but refused to call finality.
She had been waiting... longing...
desiring His coming...
With a trembling heart of expectation, she hurriedly prepared and crawled under her white woolen blanket to rest and wait until the hands on her clock reached the time entitled, "The Hour Of Her Visitation".
For there was nothing much she could do but wait. but rest. but trust He'd come.
And as she lied there, she began to recount Him from all the times before. She began to remember His love and the moments she had heard Him speak. These times had ruined her for all sun-scorched delights her simple life offered - for the transcendent tastes left upon her tongue, heavenly melodies stuck in her head, pleasing fragrance lingering upon her dress had driven her to what some would call madness. Since then she had been consumed with one thing, which confused many of her companions, for little Rose had become a new woman walking upon earth but living from some other place.
And it was true, all she wanted was to be with Him again - to gaze upon His glorious face one more time. She knew, with all her being, that with Him there was life and through Him love was originated.
As her mind traveled through the moments of yesterday her eyes became heavy...
---
Suddenly, she was awakened from her unexpected slumber. Feeling somewhat ashamed for falling asleep in the hour she was to watch, she gasped in fear of having missed Him. Picking up her clock on her bedside she peered into the face as the hands whirled and twirled in madness, and instantly her heart began to whirl and twirl along with the time. "What is happening?" she whispered to herself.
Before she could finish the thought, her heavy, wooden door flung open and banged loudly against her bedroom wall. Still a little muffled from just awakening, Rose was easily startled by the sudden sound. Throwing the clock upon her bed, she arose to see what had caused the commotion. Instead of her normal hallway with it's normal wallpaper and normal doors - she found herself gazing upon a humble little path leading into a dense, wooded forest. At the beginning sat a little wooden sign with the words, "The Pursuit of the Knowledge of Him Whom You Seek."
Within her belly traveling up to her heart, where His voice so often echoed, she heard Him say, "Follow."
And so small and eager Rose began to move forward, one step at a time...
Friday, January 22, 2010
wake up, wake up oh my soul!
the radio of the world plays a little tune ---
submerging the airwaves
saturating the hearts of mankind.
over and over the melodies form the message,
"peace, peace. safety, safety..."
it's a lullaby... tinkering and waltzing straight into the
souls of men.
like sirens the song demands a response to all the hearers.
"sleep away the day," they say, "in the luxurious rooms...
in the comfortable homes of leisure and lethargy."
men and women everywhere, drunken by the theme of
the temporal.
this is all we have. this is what it's all about. the here and now.
the now and here.
the "do, ray, me" of humanity carving out a home in this world
the song comes riding in on the darkness that blinds the eyes of men
the banner flying high, swaying to the winds of deception, reads
"we have lost sight of the age to come."
today is the day to rest, they say.
instant gratification.
godless banquets fulfilling their hunger.
comfort! comfort! comfort is what they reach for.
... and the song continues on.
but there are the few.
the odd.
the ones raging against the flood of apathy.
making war on passivity.
the marked. the friends of God caught up in the mourning for the bridegroom.
the heirs of the promise - voluntary embracing continuous hunger.
those who have tuned into the hidden song of the unseen.
trumpeting from the river of Fire within -
backed by the choruses of the angels
composed by the Coming King.
these are the ones LIVING IN THE TENSION
found cloaked in urgency.
you can find them caught in the in-between...
these ones never sleep.
nor do they fall into slumber.
they leave no room for comfort.
they have joined with the Son of Man, having no place to lay their heads.
they have thrown to the fire temporal comfort which so quickly distracts
for they LIVE FROM THE INSIDE. MARCH TOWARDS THE INVISIBLE.
the only comfort to be had for this company of Lovers is
the Eternal Comforter dwelling within...
which offers the greatest consolation of the PROMISE.
for they are children of Abraham. waiting for the inheritance which
will never fade.
they are looked upon by the peoples living in their self-made kingdoms
built with paper and wood.
they are scoffed at by the "kings" of this age - who are blinded by the worth of true gold.
that which will stand on the Day of Reckoning.
for these ones are strangers.
sojourners. pilgrims.
if you listen you can hear them roaring the song of heaven,
"This is not our home! We are of another world! And we will not rest
until we reach this place!"
they exist, at the present, between two ages.
they look around and see all that is so quickly fading,
and they peer ahead to the heavenly country -
a land governed by Perfection
filled with Endless Love.
they grieve. they groan. they refuse to settle until
all the wrong things are made right.
and the King returns to His land.
and His voice can be heard by every ear
and He rules from a throne seated in Jerusalem
and His leadership of all things begins.
Only then will they lay down to peace
only then will they sleep to the sounds of safety.
this is a people sick with love -
and the culmination of their desperation results in the song
that raises to heaven,
"The Spirit and the Bride say COME."
those that ache and groan for His kingdom to come on earth
have conformed to the culture of eternity and there will be at home.
they watch.
they pray.
while all are found resting in their beds... sleeping the day away,
they can be found sitting at the window peering into the sky:
oil stored up for their lamps to last the night...
and as they look beyond the window -
and as they set their hearts on things above...
their hearts cry,
"We were made for God.
and when Love Himself comes to earth -
we will be in agreement, full agreement,
with His love and all it requires.
We will hate wickedness as He does.
and we will be found ready.
we will be found pure.
we will be found spotless.
we will be found longing -
and on that day -
our thirst will be satisfied.
and we will be travelers who have finally found their home."
they are the Awake found waiting...
waiting...
waiting...
"....we ourselves groan within ourselves, eagerly waiting for the adoption, the redemption of our body...
but if we hope for what we do not see, we eagerly wait for it with perseverance." - Romans 8:23-25
submerging the airwaves
saturating the hearts of mankind.
over and over the melodies form the message,
"peace, peace. safety, safety..."
it's a lullaby... tinkering and waltzing straight into the
souls of men.
like sirens the song demands a response to all the hearers.
"sleep away the day," they say, "in the luxurious rooms...
in the comfortable homes of leisure and lethargy."
men and women everywhere, drunken by the theme of
the temporal.
this is all we have. this is what it's all about. the here and now.
the now and here.
the "do, ray, me" of humanity carving out a home in this world
the song comes riding in on the darkness that blinds the eyes of men
the banner flying high, swaying to the winds of deception, reads
"we have lost sight of the age to come."
today is the day to rest, they say.
instant gratification.
godless banquets fulfilling their hunger.
comfort! comfort! comfort is what they reach for.
... and the song continues on.
but there are the few.
the odd.
the ones raging against the flood of apathy.
making war on passivity.
the marked. the friends of God caught up in the mourning for the bridegroom.
the heirs of the promise - voluntary embracing continuous hunger.
those who have tuned into the hidden song of the unseen.
trumpeting from the river of Fire within -
backed by the choruses of the angels
composed by the Coming King.
these are the ones LIVING IN THE TENSION
found cloaked in urgency.
you can find them caught in the in-between...
these ones never sleep.
nor do they fall into slumber.
they leave no room for comfort.
they have joined with the Son of Man, having no place to lay their heads.
they have thrown to the fire temporal comfort which so quickly distracts
for they LIVE FROM THE INSIDE. MARCH TOWARDS THE INVISIBLE.
the only comfort to be had for this company of Lovers is
the Eternal Comforter dwelling within...
which offers the greatest consolation of the PROMISE.
for they are children of Abraham. waiting for the inheritance which
will never fade.
they are looked upon by the peoples living in their self-made kingdoms
built with paper and wood.
they are scoffed at by the "kings" of this age - who are blinded by the worth of true gold.
that which will stand on the Day of Reckoning.
for these ones are strangers.
sojourners. pilgrims.
if you listen you can hear them roaring the song of heaven,
"This is not our home! We are of another world! And we will not rest
until we reach this place!"
they exist, at the present, between two ages.
they look around and see all that is so quickly fading,
and they peer ahead to the heavenly country -
a land governed by Perfection
filled with Endless Love.
they grieve. they groan. they refuse to settle until
all the wrong things are made right.
and the King returns to His land.
and His voice can be heard by every ear
and He rules from a throne seated in Jerusalem
and His leadership of all things begins.
Only then will they lay down to peace
only then will they sleep to the sounds of safety.
this is a people sick with love -
and the culmination of their desperation results in the song
that raises to heaven,
"The Spirit and the Bride say COME."
those that ache and groan for His kingdom to come on earth
have conformed to the culture of eternity and there will be at home.
they watch.
they pray.
while all are found resting in their beds... sleeping the day away,
they can be found sitting at the window peering into the sky:
oil stored up for their lamps to last the night...
and as they look beyond the window -
and as they set their hearts on things above...
their hearts cry,
"We were made for God.
and when Love Himself comes to earth -
we will be in agreement, full agreement,
with His love and all it requires.
We will hate wickedness as He does.
and we will be found ready.
we will be found pure.
we will be found spotless.
we will be found longing -
and on that day -
our thirst will be satisfied.
and we will be travelers who have finally found their home."
they are the Awake found waiting...
waiting...
waiting...
"....we ourselves groan within ourselves, eagerly waiting for the adoption, the redemption of our body...
but if we hope for what we do not see, we eagerly wait for it with perseverance." - Romans 8:23-25
"i will not leave you as orphans; i will come to you"
There is a place within us that no man can visit...
a hidden place deep within..
a locked garden - the Holy Spirit's habitation, the inner-man.
There is much of you, of me, of us as human beings that will NEVER be understood
by another.
It will never be discovered, and if, through attempts to explain it, these deep waters will,
more than likely, not be treated with the value and delicate care they so deserve.
and truly, it would be a man whose visited an unknown land wanting another to taste of
the new and undiscovered fruits by mere storytelling.
What I'm talking about here - is that locked place.
the you of rushing rivers that flows between the ribs to the thoughts behind the eyes.
The thoughts of a man.
The emotions of a man.
The history of one - the wounds and triumphs and glories and broken loves.
The desires, deep within, and the fears and the hopes and the explanations
that not even the greatest of writers could convey or the most talented musician
string out.
and after we are purified,
down the stairwells, and through the torn curtain,
abides the Holy of Holies, within us.
where only 2 can enter.
ourselves (with all it's mysteries and reality)
and the God of the Universe.
And God has mandated it this way.
This is His glory.
For He is God, a great Creator, and He has reserved the depths of a human being
for Himself, for He is a jealous One...
And He wants us to give Him this place, and live from this place, and abide within this place.
It's the kingdom of heaven within, it's the Holy Spirit's indwelling, it's the place where God can make home.
And we, especially as women, toil and spin and strive to be known.
Though some admit to hiding, it's really a holding out, the waiting for the one who proves to deal well with that which is within.
We write deep thoughts, or dream of the day when we are married, where we will REALLY be known,
and enjoyed for the depths and fully understood.
but i am guessing,
and i'm saying this prematurely, for obviously I am not married,
and obviously there is something about becoming One with someone that transcends
all other relationships,
but still.
but still.
there is a deep, deep, deep reservoir within.
and even the greatest of lovers will never tread there -
and this, in immaturity, could produce frustration and anger...
but really,
there is a key owned by One Man,
and it's Jesus.
and once we understand that.
i think there is this level of freedom,
of pure liberation, that is obtained.
for we cease to strive to pull out and give and show this deep part of us,
not out of selfishness or fear,
but out of the mere knowledge that man couldn't understand even if we tried...
because it's His. and He can have it - and if He wishes to publish it for mankind -
He shall, for those He chooses, but if not -
His communion and His being the High Priest who UNDERSTANDS fully and SYMPATHIZES fully
that is enough.
and so if we live our lives forever alone,
waking up to an empty bed,
no spouse to share our secrets with,
no children to pass on our lessons to,
and no friends to laugh about the oddities buried beneath
the normalcy of live.
it's really okay.
really.
Because the God of the Universe dwells within.
and He's the only one who really KNOWS us anyway,
even those who deny His existence or flee from His invitation,
even they are known and watched and live in a deceit that tells them they are alone,
in their own insanity and their own inner struggle and their own emotional hurricanes and their own deep misunderstandings,
even they are haunted by the Holder of all Secrets.
Yes, and He shall be named closer than a brother - the dearest Friend.
He has walked upon the waters of our souls and swam within the roaring oceans of our minds since before we were born.
to Him we are FULLY known.
there is only One, whom too, has tasted from the same well of suffering our own hearts has drank from
and there is only One, who has taken part in every everlasting joy and jubilee within the inside of one's soul.
hallelujah that one day, quicker than we can blink our eyes, we will behold the Face
that peers deeply within our beings and watches our every movement and hears every desperate plea
and holds within His hands all that was never appreciated or understood by the minds of men.
The joy of it all is enough to cause martyrs to march to their death
and cause lovers to waste their lives on the Invisible.
and it's true, beloved, truly truly true.
He is the greatest Lover.
a hidden place deep within..
a locked garden - the Holy Spirit's habitation, the inner-man.
There is much of you, of me, of us as human beings that will NEVER be understood
by another.
It will never be discovered, and if, through attempts to explain it, these deep waters will,
more than likely, not be treated with the value and delicate care they so deserve.
and truly, it would be a man whose visited an unknown land wanting another to taste of
the new and undiscovered fruits by mere storytelling.
What I'm talking about here - is that locked place.
the you of rushing rivers that flows between the ribs to the thoughts behind the eyes.
The thoughts of a man.
The emotions of a man.
The history of one - the wounds and triumphs and glories and broken loves.
The desires, deep within, and the fears and the hopes and the explanations
that not even the greatest of writers could convey or the most talented musician
string out.
and after we are purified,
down the stairwells, and through the torn curtain,
abides the Holy of Holies, within us.
where only 2 can enter.
ourselves (with all it's mysteries and reality)
and the God of the Universe.
And God has mandated it this way.
This is His glory.
For He is God, a great Creator, and He has reserved the depths of a human being
for Himself, for He is a jealous One...
And He wants us to give Him this place, and live from this place, and abide within this place.
It's the kingdom of heaven within, it's the Holy Spirit's indwelling, it's the place where God can make home.
And we, especially as women, toil and spin and strive to be known.
Though some admit to hiding, it's really a holding out, the waiting for the one who proves to deal well with that which is within.
We write deep thoughts, or dream of the day when we are married, where we will REALLY be known,
and enjoyed for the depths and fully understood.
but i am guessing,
and i'm saying this prematurely, for obviously I am not married,
and obviously there is something about becoming One with someone that transcends
all other relationships,
but still.
but still.
there is a deep, deep, deep reservoir within.
and even the greatest of lovers will never tread there -
and this, in immaturity, could produce frustration and anger...
but really,
there is a key owned by One Man,
and it's Jesus.
and once we understand that.
i think there is this level of freedom,
of pure liberation, that is obtained.
for we cease to strive to pull out and give and show this deep part of us,
not out of selfishness or fear,
but out of the mere knowledge that man couldn't understand even if we tried...
because it's His. and He can have it - and if He wishes to publish it for mankind -
He shall, for those He chooses, but if not -
His communion and His being the High Priest who UNDERSTANDS fully and SYMPATHIZES fully
that is enough.
and so if we live our lives forever alone,
waking up to an empty bed,
no spouse to share our secrets with,
no children to pass on our lessons to,
and no friends to laugh about the oddities buried beneath
the normalcy of live.
it's really okay.
really.
Because the God of the Universe dwells within.
and He's the only one who really KNOWS us anyway,
even those who deny His existence or flee from His invitation,
even they are known and watched and live in a deceit that tells them they are alone,
in their own insanity and their own inner struggle and their own emotional hurricanes and their own deep misunderstandings,
even they are haunted by the Holder of all Secrets.
Yes, and He shall be named closer than a brother - the dearest Friend.
He has walked upon the waters of our souls and swam within the roaring oceans of our minds since before we were born.
to Him we are FULLY known.
there is only One, whom too, has tasted from the same well of suffering our own hearts has drank from
and there is only One, who has taken part in every everlasting joy and jubilee within the inside of one's soul.
hallelujah that one day, quicker than we can blink our eyes, we will behold the Face
that peers deeply within our beings and watches our every movement and hears every desperate plea
and holds within His hands all that was never appreciated or understood by the minds of men.
The joy of it all is enough to cause martyrs to march to their death
and cause lovers to waste their lives on the Invisible.
and it's true, beloved, truly truly true.
He is the greatest Lover.
so come into Your garden.
come with me, in your imagination, to a secret place.
close your eyes, if you shall, and enter into the reality within -
ask the Spirit to arise, and take you into the mysteries of the kingdom.
follow me, into touch and feel.
into hear and beats of a rhythm not yet found by men
music and pictures, moving and swirling and spinning, from a different realm.
mysttterrrrrrry -
for here fascination and exhilaration originate.
dancers dance to a moving, whistling winds of love
& singers sing with melodies and harmonies of holy obsession.
let us peer through the window of our souls -
into the Spirit.
the Spirit.
the Spirit.
which is ours, and His, and mine, and His.
and together we fellowship. we commune.
we journey together into the endless, boundless, depths of God.
the unsearchable waters of this Being. this infinite Being.
this never-ending source of Power, and Wisdom, and Beauty, and Love,
and Passion.
join hands with me as we jump off the rugged cliff of the seen
&
let go and violently abandon all that we know...
free fall, with earth above, and heaven below.
fallllllling. the dark storms brewing above, and the memory of His presence
pushing us down, down, down.
the tune that continues to play over and over and over.
the taste that was left upon our tongue.
pushing us further.
further.
forcing us
down
&
down
&
down
&
here we are: falllllling.
listen to the breakers and the waves and breakers of
the depths. the endlessness of the raging waters of GOD.
the souls of seeking ask the terrifying questions:
Who is this One that causes creation to groan?
Who is this One who holds the world together by the sound of His voice?
Who is this One pulling us dowwwwwn....?
and here we are hitting this
water - being swallowed into the sinking of seeking.
Overtaken
by
mystery
by
mystery
by
mystery
by
the Hidden
by
the cloudy, raging, roaring waters of the deeeeep deeeeep wonders of
Him who came booming over Mount Sinai.
who struck down thousands by the waters of the seas
who burned down fire and sulphur onto wickedness
who threw His wrath, intended for men, upon His very own Son.
yet the only option is to
crash into the horizon of water and sky
the waters of this limitless Being:
the whisperings asking, who is this?
who offered His Spirit.
WHO IS THIS vast being - whose waters we have begun to swim...
yet this is only
the beginning...
this is only the beginning...
this is the refusal to be satisfied with words. words. words.
this is the rejection of only peering from afar.
this is beginning the pursuit that eternity won't even exhaust.
cutting the rope.
holding nothing back.
giving up
everything
and falling.
falling,
falllllling
into the neverending Sea.
and we shall swim straight into Him.
and the screams of the skies will be silenced
and the emancipation of the soul will be found.
LET GO.
close your eyes, if you shall, and enter into the reality within -
ask the Spirit to arise, and take you into the mysteries of the kingdom.
follow me, into touch and feel.
into hear and beats of a rhythm not yet found by men
music and pictures, moving and swirling and spinning, from a different realm.
mysttterrrrrrry -
for here fascination and exhilaration originate.
dancers dance to a moving, whistling winds of love
& singers sing with melodies and harmonies of holy obsession.
let us peer through the window of our souls -
into the Spirit.
the Spirit.
the Spirit.
which is ours, and His, and mine, and His.
and together we fellowship. we commune.
we journey together into the endless, boundless, depths of God.
the unsearchable waters of this Being. this infinite Being.
this never-ending source of Power, and Wisdom, and Beauty, and Love,
and Passion.
join hands with me as we jump off the rugged cliff of the seen
&
let go and violently abandon all that we know...
free fall, with earth above, and heaven below.
fallllllling. the dark storms brewing above, and the memory of His presence
pushing us down, down, down.
the tune that continues to play over and over and over.
the taste that was left upon our tongue.
pushing us further.
further.
forcing us
down
&
down
&
down
&
here we are: falllllling.
listen to the breakers and the waves and breakers of
the depths. the endlessness of the raging waters of GOD.
the souls of seeking ask the terrifying questions:
Who is this One that causes creation to groan?
Who is this One who holds the world together by the sound of His voice?
Who is this One pulling us dowwwwwn....?
and here we are hitting this
water - being swallowed into the sinking of seeking.
Overtaken
by
mystery
by
mystery
by
mystery
by
the Hidden
by
the cloudy, raging, roaring waters of the deeeeep deeeeep wonders of
Him who came booming over Mount Sinai.
who struck down thousands by the waters of the seas
who burned down fire and sulphur onto wickedness
who threw His wrath, intended for men, upon His very own Son.
yet the only option is to
crash into the horizon of water and sky
the waters of this limitless Being:
the whisperings asking, who is this?
who offered His Spirit.
WHO IS THIS vast being - whose waters we have begun to swim...
yet this is only
the beginning...
this is only the beginning...
this is the refusal to be satisfied with words. words. words.
this is the rejection of only peering from afar.
this is beginning the pursuit that eternity won't even exhaust.
cutting the rope.
holding nothing back.
giving up
everything
and falling.
falling,
falllllling
into the neverending Sea.
and we shall swim straight into Him.
and the screams of the skies will be silenced
and the emancipation of the soul will be found.
LET GO.
it's the end of the age as we know it
i heard this tale once, tall and towering,
yet somehow true...
and for its borrowing
i am here to let it out,
break the seams,
let rushing water overwhelm
this
infamous drought.
listen all ears
hungry for
emerald
and gold.
galatic fairytales
parables of old
hidden enigmas
never been told.
what
could
this be.
the great feeding
the mystery breeding
the beautiful shes
and the powerful hes
all in need.
for they are the broken.
they are the maimed.
and out of the heart shaped cavern of
hunger.
the calvary speaks,
"whisper Oh Man of the Desert
dusty feet
a wellspring of waters
tall oak Tree.
bury my bones in the
depths of your belly.
count back down from three.
let me grow
out of your skin
and speak to these roots,
say to these anchors like lead -
that hollow evenings are about to be fed
with cement
and there we shall sink deeep deeep
covered
in
the unbreakable.
unshakeable.
make us beautiful."
and there He stands.
mighty Man of war -
the jewel of the desert
sparkling against the Saharan sun
He vies for frail affection
like a hungry village for the burnt batch of rice.
dusty frames have no delight to offer
but still He withholds, only to entice.
this King, a jar filled with blood,
is Wisdom
rushing
roaring
soaking
the alluring Flood.
sparkle.
shine.
glitter.
sweet red wine.
"lets drink from your cup.
garnished veneer
golden studded handle
bubbles
and water
and red
and tears."
this is a pining for light.
liquid illumination.
He sets people on fire.
the famished come bounding.
it's the Burning Man in the desert.
His call is resounding.
and the great eagles of the sky
peer with their one seeing eye
down into the great bowl of sand
the seemingly barren barren barren land.
and the great God of the flame
is surrounded by rusty and weathered lampstands
the shattered and lame.
but they too
are burning.
burning.
burning.
"in His river of fire,
we are illuminated."
no one is being consumed.
like moses and His bush.
forever blazing
this is the hour.
watch.
squint into the Sun.
He breathes.
yet somehow true...
and for its borrowing
i am here to let it out,
break the seams,
let rushing water overwhelm
this
infamous drought.
listen all ears
hungry for
emerald
and gold.
galatic fairytales
parables of old
hidden enigmas
never been told.
what
could
this be.
the great feeding
the mystery breeding
the beautiful shes
and the powerful hes
all in need.
for they are the broken.
they are the maimed.
and out of the heart shaped cavern of
hunger.
the calvary speaks,
"whisper Oh Man of the Desert
dusty feet
a wellspring of waters
tall oak Tree.
bury my bones in the
depths of your belly.
count back down from three.
let me grow
out of your skin
and speak to these roots,
say to these anchors like lead -
that hollow evenings are about to be fed
with cement
and there we shall sink deeep deeep
covered
in
the unbreakable.
unshakeable.
make us beautiful."
and there He stands.
mighty Man of war -
the jewel of the desert
sparkling against the Saharan sun
He vies for frail affection
like a hungry village for the burnt batch of rice.
dusty frames have no delight to offer
but still He withholds, only to entice.
this King, a jar filled with blood,
is Wisdom
rushing
roaring
soaking
the alluring Flood.
sparkle.
shine.
glitter.
sweet red wine.
"lets drink from your cup.
garnished veneer
golden studded handle
bubbles
and water
and red
and tears."
this is a pining for light.
liquid illumination.
He sets people on fire.
the famished come bounding.
it's the Burning Man in the desert.
His call is resounding.
and the great eagles of the sky
peer with their one seeing eye
down into the great bowl of sand
the seemingly barren barren barren land.
and the great God of the flame
is surrounded by rusty and weathered lampstands
the shattered and lame.
but they too
are burning.
burning.
burning.
"in His river of fire,
we are illuminated."
no one is being consumed.
like moses and His bush.
forever blazing
this is the hour.
watch.
squint into the Sun.
He breathes.
replace the plastic chairs
lola don't know what happened.
she really don't.
but you can peer through her gloriously, glorious bay window and find her
and her paper dolls
barely seen amidst a mountain of browned maps
rolled up over and over with all her plans.
lists and places and trinkets and things
her little life inside this mansion of a cabin - built with woooooooden beams,
ceilings low to the ground,
has
been
interrupted.
watch the terribly divine inter•jection.
it must be
the great pause/reversal on the ancient tape player.
hear it sssskip skip, change. the blood in the atrium beating to a new, ethereal rhythm.
the silver record, switches to something of divine nature.
and she tastes it all crashing down, as rubble and rust cover
her little life of dreaming -
and ceiling dusts rest upon her tongue.
listen
as she whispers to herself, in the squeaky voice behind her mother's
red lipstick, "He tends to do this to me..."
invisible movements.
missing bed frames.
the great reform.
FOR WE HAD IT ALL FIGURED OUT.
ya, she's a dreamer. a seer. a fairy in a make-believe world.
ya, she's an architect. a lover. a terrified child in need of deconstruction.
lola's one of those with chipped white nail polish, and gaudy diamond rings, and dancing fingers upon the bottom of her
hair.
ya. she's a daughter. a dancer. a safe-havened sojourner looking for a home.
and there she was: mapping out all the bold-fonted tomorrows,
with colors and numbers
and connecting dot.dot.dots,
all perfectly in line,
lining up.
cake. and horses. and oceans. and fire from heaven.
babies. and 17 stringed harps. and foggy fruit gardens.
all perfectly one after the other
etched in her expectation well,
going deep within her soul.
columns and rows like pebbles in the walls of castles.
deep dark waters like the kiddy pool in the back yard.
(stones captured from a greater, rock mountain?
waters stolen from deeper seas - stretching beyond those blufffs like mighty knights on the backdrop of sand, sand, shell, and sand.
it must be only the outlines of her coloring books.
ever and only.)
but THEN.
click one, twenty, thirteen, ten.
He comes -
that stranger of a man,
light, and Life, and mystery, and power..
it's either this way
or that...
he arrives on a horse painted yellow
out of the abyss of her inner frame
can you see him
knock
the
house
down?
smell shreds of map and paper and color
all over the ground.
mounds of piles, and piles of mound.
and lola remembers, even through blurred vision within
the waterfall of wondering.
in a whisper she recites those classical words,
"I love it when He does this.
yes, I am sure."
for there is something delightfully fascinating about
swallowing the soup He serves.
she's been at the banquet before -
and what sings to her from the table of glass
sounds better to her stomach than all
the potions of concoctions of adventures she's
written out before.
being blanketed, anyway, by sinking, submerging sands of time.
his offering exceeds her faction-ing.
his diamonds are the fat beat that
make the song worthy of a dance.
she knows she's not a good artist.
her play-games bore
the atmosphere.
lola longs to live -
and so she's remembering.
his redefinition is her reality.
for the title of his book is still,
"i know your desires."
watch him reprogram the time machine.
this is glorious.
and lola breathes.
selah unto living.
and living unto
LIFE.
she really don't.
but you can peer through her gloriously, glorious bay window and find her
and her paper dolls
barely seen amidst a mountain of browned maps
rolled up over and over with all her plans.
lists and places and trinkets and things
her little life inside this mansion of a cabin - built with woooooooden beams,
ceilings low to the ground,
has
been
interrupted.
watch the terribly divine inter•jection.
it must be
the great pause/reversal on the ancient tape player.
hear it sssskip skip, change. the blood in the atrium beating to a new, ethereal rhythm.
the silver record, switches to something of divine nature.
and she tastes it all crashing down, as rubble and rust cover
her little life of dreaming -
and ceiling dusts rest upon her tongue.
listen
as she whispers to herself, in the squeaky voice behind her mother's
red lipstick, "He tends to do this to me..."
invisible movements.
missing bed frames.
the great reform.
FOR WE HAD IT ALL FIGURED OUT.
ya, she's a dreamer. a seer. a fairy in a make-believe world.
ya, she's an architect. a lover. a terrified child in need of deconstruction.
lola's one of those with chipped white nail polish, and gaudy diamond rings, and dancing fingers upon the bottom of her
hair.
ya. she's a daughter. a dancer. a safe-havened sojourner looking for a home.
and there she was: mapping out all the bold-fonted tomorrows,
with colors and numbers
and connecting dot.dot.dots,
all perfectly in line,
lining up.
cake. and horses. and oceans. and fire from heaven.
babies. and 17 stringed harps. and foggy fruit gardens.
all perfectly one after the other
etched in her expectation well,
going deep within her soul.
columns and rows like pebbles in the walls of castles.
deep dark waters like the kiddy pool in the back yard.
(stones captured from a greater, rock mountain?
waters stolen from deeper seas - stretching beyond those blufffs like mighty knights on the backdrop of sand, sand, shell, and sand.
it must be only the outlines of her coloring books.
ever and only.)
but THEN.
click one, twenty, thirteen, ten.
He comes -
that stranger of a man,
light, and Life, and mystery, and power..
it's either this way
or that...
he arrives on a horse painted yellow
out of the abyss of her inner frame
can you see him
knock
the
house
down?
smell shreds of map and paper and color
all over the ground.
mounds of piles, and piles of mound.
and lola remembers, even through blurred vision within
the waterfall of wondering.
in a whisper she recites those classical words,
"I love it when He does this.
yes, I am sure."
for there is something delightfully fascinating about
swallowing the soup He serves.
she's been at the banquet before -
and what sings to her from the table of glass
sounds better to her stomach than all
the potions of concoctions of adventures she's
written out before.
being blanketed, anyway, by sinking, submerging sands of time.
his offering exceeds her faction-ing.
his diamonds are the fat beat that
make the song worthy of a dance.
she knows she's not a good artist.
her play-games bore
the atmosphere.
lola longs to live -
and so she's remembering.
his redefinition is her reality.
for the title of his book is still,
"i know your desires."
watch him reprogram the time machine.
this is glorious.
and lola breathes.
selah unto living.
and living unto
LIFE.
yet again, there He is.
like a small child on the lap of her father
she rereads the book for the 133rd time
traces her delicate hands over the ragged page
humming the sound she feels would come from the sky
swaying to the beat of the rhyming words
this is her comfort.
growing in an age of the drunken old man
asleep on his pillow of gold.
the earth is his overcoat, and the spirit of the age is
his sleeping pill - drifting him away.
cracked skin and rubbed down knuckles,
he snores to the sound of "comfort, and safety, and pleasure"
and his droning is the fire behind every word being brought forth.
"drink and be merry - for we rule the world"
she didn't choose to be born in this hour.
and she barely understands.
at night, when the wind rattles the window,
we hide in the closets and talk to Jesus.
the earth rumbles, and when the TV's finally turned down,
and the silence is visited,
we know something is about to happen.
and even so,
she didn't choose to be born in this hour.
and she barely understands.
rocks cradled in the arms of the earth,
dirt covered and telling stories,
sing His praises.
deep in the oceans, where men know not of,
they groan for His return,
because even they - lacking spirit and soul -
know something is terribly wrong.
like a little girl, dancing to acoustic strumming and
piano banging, asking to know the God who created her...
believing there's a world to explore in the recesses of
her being.
laying down she sees inside, doors upon doors upon doors
where light creeps from gap between floor and frame.
it's the rooms of the stories of the prophets.
it's the halls of the tears of the martyrs.
it's the longing of all those who have came before her.
an ushering.
she didn't ask to be born in this hour.
and she barely understands.
it's the culmination of the ages.
and the bowls of the cries of the chosen ones burns forth,
and there is such thing as the wrath of the Lamb.
but amidst a scarlet woman on a scarlet beast.
the room where she reads,
the walls to which she sings,
and even the father who raised her up,
flee away.
and
she
hears.
the pages come to life, and the musics volumes shake the floorboards.
she whispers, "HE IS REAL."
this is the
swimming in the dwelling place of God.
He who is a Priest and a Lamb.
He who is slain and rose again.
He who is a servant and a King.
the desire of the nations.
the man of war, drenched in the blood of the wicked.
the Lion of the Tribe of Judah
is roaring.
and the noise rattles her frame,
and she falls to her face - a picture and a sign.
the Bride, so unaware.
the Bride, being called forth.
Oh so distant are the wildernesses in which prophets are born.
Oh so terrible is the sun.
Oh so troubling is the loneliness.
Oh so terrifying is the hour.
Oh so great is our God.
all the aching of all the hearts
is found in the Fountain.
all the aching of all the hearts
is found in the Light.
and she is found drinking deeply,
and she is found swimming in the heat of the glory.
as she bellows "I want to be with You where you are"
and as soon as the song is sung, the tenor overtakes
from the depths of His being, the same song,
"I want to be with You where you are."
she didn't ask to be born in this hour.
and she barely understands.
but He is asking for friends.
for His rod of iron shall dash them,
and His wife will be clean.
His glory shall arise in Zion,
and the darkened skies will break,
and nothing will ever be the same.
and so the chorus arises, for those who love His appearing,
"Even so, Come Lord Jesus."
Even so, Come.
Jesus, we want You to come back.
she rereads the book for the 133rd time
traces her delicate hands over the ragged page
humming the sound she feels would come from the sky
swaying to the beat of the rhyming words
this is her comfort.
growing in an age of the drunken old man
asleep on his pillow of gold.
the earth is his overcoat, and the spirit of the age is
his sleeping pill - drifting him away.
cracked skin and rubbed down knuckles,
he snores to the sound of "comfort, and safety, and pleasure"
and his droning is the fire behind every word being brought forth.
"drink and be merry - for we rule the world"
she didn't choose to be born in this hour.
and she barely understands.
at night, when the wind rattles the window,
we hide in the closets and talk to Jesus.
the earth rumbles, and when the TV's finally turned down,
and the silence is visited,
we know something is about to happen.
and even so,
she didn't choose to be born in this hour.
and she barely understands.
rocks cradled in the arms of the earth,
dirt covered and telling stories,
sing His praises.
deep in the oceans, where men know not of,
they groan for His return,
because even they - lacking spirit and soul -
know something is terribly wrong.
like a little girl, dancing to acoustic strumming and
piano banging, asking to know the God who created her...
believing there's a world to explore in the recesses of
her being.
laying down she sees inside, doors upon doors upon doors
where light creeps from gap between floor and frame.
it's the rooms of the stories of the prophets.
it's the halls of the tears of the martyrs.
it's the longing of all those who have came before her.
an ushering.
she didn't ask to be born in this hour.
and she barely understands.
it's the culmination of the ages.
and the bowls of the cries of the chosen ones burns forth,
and there is such thing as the wrath of the Lamb.
but amidst a scarlet woman on a scarlet beast.
the room where she reads,
the walls to which she sings,
and even the father who raised her up,
flee away.
and
she
hears.
the pages come to life, and the musics volumes shake the floorboards.
she whispers, "HE IS REAL."
this is the
swimming in the dwelling place of God.
He who is a Priest and a Lamb.
He who is slain and rose again.
He who is a servant and a King.
the desire of the nations.
the man of war, drenched in the blood of the wicked.
the Lion of the Tribe of Judah
is roaring.
and the noise rattles her frame,
and she falls to her face - a picture and a sign.
the Bride, so unaware.
the Bride, being called forth.
Oh so distant are the wildernesses in which prophets are born.
Oh so terrible is the sun.
Oh so troubling is the loneliness.
Oh so terrifying is the hour.
Oh so great is our God.
all the aching of all the hearts
is found in the Fountain.
all the aching of all the hearts
is found in the Light.
and she is found drinking deeply,
and she is found swimming in the heat of the glory.
as she bellows "I want to be with You where you are"
and as soon as the song is sung, the tenor overtakes
from the depths of His being, the same song,
"I want to be with You where you are."
she didn't ask to be born in this hour.
and she barely understands.
but He is asking for friends.
for His rod of iron shall dash them,
and His wife will be clean.
His glory shall arise in Zion,
and the darkened skies will break,
and nothing will ever be the same.
and so the chorus arises, for those who love His appearing,
"Even so, Come Lord Jesus."
Even so, Come.
Jesus, we want You to come back.
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