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.
11.12.2008
11.10.2008
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
