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.
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