The drums crash through the crowded structure, awakening the feet, hands and spirits of those who stand in reverence.
A bounce and a shake start to ripple through us all, our feet unable to keep from being still.
We beat our hands to the steady rhythm, singing our praises to a true King as loud as we're able.
The bass thunders in, kicking heavy and thumping against the soul, each thick string pulling our praise that much further from underground.
A mighty praise has been unleashed upon us and we gladly accept it with a deepened satisfaction. Together, we dance, clap and sing our holy song to the One who gave His all for each of us.
With arms stretched high to a loving heaven, we pound our feet into the beaten carpet over and over again, smiles on our faces and whispers of greatness on our lips.
A mighty praise is falling upon us now and forever.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Scars
The blackened ink sits beneath my skin, ingrained and unmoving, permanent for the rest of my life.
Each marking gleams to me, reminding me of the times in which I felt they were needed and craved upon.
I wear most with shame now, each independent brand standing in tainted tribute to love's lost and callings claimed.
I look upon them with a sorrowful, watering eye as they remind me of my brutal fights and wearing battles, times of beating myself alone in a cold darkness and begging for peace.
Even with my righted life now brazenly and poetically pointed toward the good and holy times I've been absent in, the visible scars of my past shine with unrelenting focus, evidence of where I've been but not where I'm going, of who I was but not of who I've become, of my dastardly failures but not of my coming victories.
Scarred yet now willfully barren and internally clean, I have relented my days to You, praying for Your ever-lasting peace to wash me new.
No longer the holder of a desperate need to add and hide my battle wounds in plain sight, I proudly and humbly display my inked and bleeding scars for You, announcing the greatness and mercy one may posses when they turn their meaningful scars of yesteryear to You.
Each marking gleams to me, reminding me of the times in which I felt they were needed and craved upon.
I wear most with shame now, each independent brand standing in tainted tribute to love's lost and callings claimed.
I look upon them with a sorrowful, watering eye as they remind me of my brutal fights and wearing battles, times of beating myself alone in a cold darkness and begging for peace.
Even with my righted life now brazenly and poetically pointed toward the good and holy times I've been absent in, the visible scars of my past shine with unrelenting focus, evidence of where I've been but not where I'm going, of who I was but not of who I've become, of my dastardly failures but not of my coming victories.
Scarred yet now willfully barren and internally clean, I have relented my days to You, praying for Your ever-lasting peace to wash me new.
No longer the holder of a desperate need to add and hide my battle wounds in plain sight, I proudly and humbly display my inked and bleeding scars for You, announcing the greatness and mercy one may posses when they turn their meaningful scars of yesteryear to You.
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