Responding to the beat

Like a metronome my heart ticked.
Slow,"adagio", it clicked.
A child with no ear for music,
with no rhythm,
with no joy in playing,
plucked the keys
composing a dry, empty song.

And the song went on,
days...
and days....

It went on.

It would find a small crescendo here and there,
maybe even a weak, trill.
But so empty,
the boy constantly waited for the song
to find it's finale.

But today was different.
Today the boy found himself
with fire seeping into his bones,
with electricity flowing in his fingers,
a rhythm ringing in his ears.
Poco a poco,
it rose like the tide,
swallowing him like the shoreline.

It beat with life that no song has ever held,
unlike any music he ever knew existed.

He became its slave, its tool.
And he felt more free and alive because of it
than he ever had before.
A song began forming
from the placement of his fingers on the keys.
Chromatic rises,
con fuoco,
con brio!
Yet turning, and striking deep, deep notes
which caused the boy to quiver with pain,
needing to pause and breathe
to be able to continue.

And my heart wondered where this beat had been
for all my life.
And even more,
where I could find its source.

If I find the song,
if I hear it again,
I will remember it
so that I can play it for you.
For an orchestra with a song like that
would transform the world
into a place like heaven.

give me this

give me:
an opportunity
to find the unity,
escape futility,
to use ability,
enjoy tranquility,
to pray continually,
to fight resiliently,
to give abundantly,
escape the pleasantries
that've fundamentally
skewed society
into life illicitly,
without simplicity,
lived complacently
while still adjacently
dwelling continuously
besides the marginally
poor with families,
products of fallacy,
lies and policies,
forgotten overseas
and on our city streets.
wheres integrity?
we live indebtedly
to a God who pitied me,
loved emphatically
to all humanity,
who sacrificially
gave his progeny
to hang upon a tree,
so we could finally
live abundantly
as slaves that been set free.

how can it be our stance
to live with arrogance,
pleading innocence
because of ignorance,
within our decadence?
forget the innocents?
fuel belligerence?
forget benevolence?
ignore the violence
that lies beyond the fence,
where towns are made of tents
where all the residents
are fearful immigrants
who fled the dominance
of wicked governments?
seek opportunity
to find some unity
in close communities
with all our families.
not walking lawlessly
or drenched in policy,
slowed by apathy.
instead with empathy
living constantly
with sensitivity.
to live courageously,
to give outrageously,
to love contagiously,
with authenticity,
with all humility
for all eternity.

give me this.
thats what i pray.

What God makes things out of...

blessed are the broken,
for they will be made new.

blessed are the redeemed,
for their beauty will exceed themselves.

blessed are the graceful,
for the forests they burnt will spring new life.

blessed are those that ask for forgiveness,
for they shall be able to forgive themselves

blessed are those that have empty hands,
for they will be able to receive the most

blessed are those that give when they have little,
for they will know what they have

blessed are those that give when they have nothing,
for they will gain everything


God makes everything out of nothing
God makes light out of darkness
God makes men out of dust
God makes life out of death


God chooses great nations out of slaves
God chooses royalty out of the left out ones
God chooses loved children out of those that don't belong
God chooses those that belong the most out of children

Rocks and Fields

With closed eyes I do life.
I wake with closed eyes,
I work with closed eyes,
I speak with closed eyes,
I think with closed eyes.

I live in streets and walls.
I live in a box, in a fog.

All the things that fill my days,
they fill my head,
and push out all of the light,
and it takes my sight.

But I escaped.

I saw.

A man, standing on a rock.
Face in the wind.
Eyes to the fields.

This world is alive, its real.
These rocks, these fields, these skies?
A man once lived here and saw them too.
He lived under the same stars and clouds as I do.

There is one world,
and its the world my savior walked on.
The eyes of my heart squint to make out the reality.
He lived, breathed, and died upon these very rocks.
He was here.
And he still is.

That man standing on the rock,
face to the wind,
eyes to the fields;
who was he?

I stood there on that rock.
I faced that wind.
I looked on those fields.

And finally,
away from the walls and fog,
I saw the stones,
they were crying out.
I felt the wind,
it was full with the Spirit.
I witnessed the fields,
they were ripe for harvest.

That man who lived for me,
who I told I will live for him,
said, "See the rocks and the fields?
My wind will be your supply. Go."