"Stand up, GOD; pit your holy fury against my furious enemies. Wake up, God. My accusers have packed the courtroom; it's judgment time.Take your place on the bench, reach for your gavel, throw out the false charges against me. I'm ready, confident in your verdict: "Innocent." "
-Psalm 7:7-8
Innocent.
That is a word I normally do not reserve for myself...just to take a tiny walk through the vocubalry I do tend to use...
"Hypocrite, jerk, bastard, liar, thief, adulterer, evil, uncaring, selfish, dumb, confused, sleepy, uncaring, mean, short sighted and...well you get the idea."
Bad words, words meaning that I am less then human, that I do not deserve your love and that I am nothing less then the most vile and horrible evil thing in your creation.
But at the end my words will mean nothing next to yours. I mean that in humbleness, not in an attempt to crucify myself. I have been cleansed and washed by the sacrifice of Jesus, a literal death and resurrection that paid for me. You died for me.
In all sincerity, thank you. With all the words I throw around, all the cliches I spout, thank you for picking me up out of the Hell I was bound for and thank you for setting me up on a firm rock. Things are not perfect but I want to rest in your hands, regardless of the end.
Wherever we go I want to be yours and yours alone. I love you, I need you.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Words and Again
Some things I just should have expected
other things I knew very well about.
Your word?
The trust?
Negotiationable fallacies lacking grace.
The words you say can almost take flight
and ride upon the winds of fate,
quite noble in your pursuits.
I'm at a loss for words while you are lost over you.
Melodic notes, striking chords and the rest fill empty air,
the reassuring thoughts of silence only act to remind me
again and again of that which I seek to loose.
Choosing thought, loosing sight with all the repetitions in vain.
Attempting to close doors on this part of my mind doesn't work.
Regardless of my attempt both you and the problem remain.
Repetition again and again.
The words remain the same.
I loose myself in soundless remixes of thought,
just so I can pause to reflect on the thought.
I'm not sure on this reflective thought or the consequence it follows.
Repetition again and again.
Words wrap and following in themselves.
I tried to find the way in its own self but I found nothing,
nothing but the same empty room that this began in.
The light doesn't enter such a place,
it curves and bends shape to avoid the confrontation.
The ever desperate attempt at life does nothing but this,
this false imitation of itself,
just whatever and ever it even means in the beginning and end.
I don't know.
It may just be words speaking for themselves,
words wastering, killing, wondering, dying and being this.
It may be this or it could be that.
I do not know the words I am trying to say,
just that they are themselves.
Words repetitious and superstitious.
Words themselves.
Words representing and living.
Roaring flames desperately alive.
Benin only in their incompleteness,
alive only in their self.
other things I knew very well about.
Your word?
The trust?
Negotiationable fallacies lacking grace.
The words you say can almost take flight
and ride upon the winds of fate,
quite noble in your pursuits.
I'm at a loss for words while you are lost over you.
Melodic notes, striking chords and the rest fill empty air,
the reassuring thoughts of silence only act to remind me
again and again of that which I seek to loose.
Choosing thought, loosing sight with all the repetitions in vain.
Attempting to close doors on this part of my mind doesn't work.
Regardless of my attempt both you and the problem remain.
Repetition again and again.
The words remain the same.
I loose myself in soundless remixes of thought,
just so I can pause to reflect on the thought.
I'm not sure on this reflective thought or the consequence it follows.
Repetition again and again.
Words wrap and following in themselves.
I tried to find the way in its own self but I found nothing,
nothing but the same empty room that this began in.
The light doesn't enter such a place,
it curves and bends shape to avoid the confrontation.
The ever desperate attempt at life does nothing but this,
this false imitation of itself,
just whatever and ever it even means in the beginning and end.
I don't know.
It may just be words speaking for themselves,
words wastering, killing, wondering, dying and being this.
It may be this or it could be that.
I do not know the words I am trying to say,
just that they are themselves.
Words repetitious and superstitious.
Words themselves.
Words representing and living.
Roaring flames desperately alive.
Benin only in their incompleteness,
alive only in their self.
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