If I said I knew it all I’d be lying
If I said I know where I’m going, It’ll probably be a bigger lie
I’m completely blind, but your name keeps me going
Your name is the love song that carries me on
My sorrow is much
But I cannot forget you
It’s like your name is the password to my heart
Oh, Yeshua HaMashiach lead me gentle Shepard
For this sheep is blind, lost and weary
Just like Jacob’s stripped sheep, I ascended with the label zebra
My God, my God, I sing a song to your name in my heart
If you will hear me, don’t leave me alone
Gather me and mine onto yourself
I search for you from dawn till dusk
And the adversary mocks and taunts me, asking; “where is your God” & “there is no God”
My heart is bare before you
I have only you upon my heart and upon my lips
My grief has become grievous because it seems they’ve stolen you from me
Do not delay
Please reveal your truth
Above all else I hope I’m able to meet your standards
Not anyone else’s, but yours alone
Above all else, I hope I didn’t let you down
And you look down on me not only with pity but with love
Because I have loved you with every fiber of my being
Above all else I hope you look with eyes of mercy on they that you gave me
Because yours they were, and you gave them to me
Above all else I hope I made you proud
That’s all a servant longs for.
I yearn to say I’m your child, but who am I kidding, I’ll happily settle for servant
If you break me, you are able to fix me up again
I hold on to you and no one else
Just like the psalmist, I bear afflictions for you
So above all else, please don’t leave me hanging!
He’s given me a new charge
Not many can look into this
For sin is complete and prophecy is fulfilled
A new thing has begun
Even now it springs forth
Blessed are those who wait on the living God
And know his name
It’s complete
A new song is written
A new melody is started
Even now Prophecy is complete
He made me a watchman
Now I must speak
For my watch is come
I must stand at my post
Ready with a tune that beats to his name
I can write to you of my love for you, but now my spirit is broken and no words can describe my pain
I can tell you all about my heart ache for you
But my spirit is broken and I’ve no where to turn
I would tell you my love for you has killed me
But your spirit would simply bring me back again just to afflict me
I know it’s not you, but the watchmen who barely know you
Yet I wish you would deal with me directly
It’s easy to say I give up
That my heart is broken and I can no longer love you
But who am I kidding
You knew I would never stop loving you before you called me into existence
Now what’s left of me?
Does a man go into desolation because he loves his God
Or will his God find him and heal him of his affliction.
I read the words: “I’ve spoken”, twice. Now I use those same words.
It’s your turn!
There was a time when I could count the Omers, say la Shana tova, & rosh hashana, but then my time came and there was non to count with me.
I was expectant of you. Knowing it was time, but I had no clue what it was time for. And for that I’m truly sorry.
It’s the beginning of days, the beginning of freedom, perhaps the beginning of a new hope. A hope only you and I know about.
I spoke with new tongues. It wasn’t even Pentecost. At least I’m not sure it was, because I ended up calling it necromancy.
How does one speak with the voice of the dead? Perhaps that’s why Yeshua said they’re not dead. For He’s not the God of the dead, but the God of the living
A new fear, a new dread, a new hope, and a new voice. Like a rushing river, a million voices stilled by the need to be what I perceive whole again. Yet waiting for you to confirm your word. Because I know insanity is sanity, and nothing is truly as it is.
Now I speak in phrases only you and I know about. Hoping you’ll tell me I didn’t miss you. That I didn’t trade you for something else, and you’re still here. Just a lot more closer, and a lot more comfy.
I guess this is my story. The story of us. 1 more prophet.
I went searching for the one they call Solomon’s wisdom
I went searching for something, I can now no longer remember
Oh yes, I went searching for the promise
The promise from of old
The one the watchmen have cleverly hidden
The one the clever ones know to speak nothing of
Like your fool, I went searching for you
Cunning wisdom, some call Sophia
A nameless one named by man
But what I found was afflicted
What I found was madness
What I found was death blossoming into life
An unholy crow sanctified by God alone
They said I was crazy
But life is crazy
To be alive is to be dead
To be aware is to be alive yet dead
Where’s the promise of old
The new to become
In Golgotha which is to say skull
There they crucified us
There they left us to rot in the morning sun
Save us Lord, save us
For our delusion is more than we can bare
We’ve become the sons of sorrow
And our prophesy has become endless
Save us Lord, save us
For our rock is unknown in this earth
How do you teach a man to love
How do you teach a man to carve out his heart and offer it on an altar
How do you teach a man the meaning of love
The tree of life is love
God is love
We say the words, but does man understand those words
Your name is a love song to me
I’m stricken
Broken for you
I’m sick from love
The pain is as a million knives to my heart
I will seek your face from dawn till dusk
I will seek you alone till I find you
Bring me home to you
Bring me unto you
For I’m weary of these treacherous roads
I’m weary because I know how dreadful you are
Yet I love you so
Oh lover of my soul
You’re the very fabric of my existence
In you alone I live move and breath
Oh how I love you so, with every bit of me
My heart is yours
Yours to keep or kill
For I am sick from love and wish not to be cured
Let me wallow in you
Let my heart bleed for you
For my love for you is as a scarlet cord
None can comprehend the whole of it.
I was seven when I first heard his story.
I still hear the voices of his people screaming and chanting “Free Mandela”
And the voice of a female singing “Winnie Mandela”
It was the story of hope in the face of persecution
Strength and Will in the face of oppression
A woman standing as a soldier beside her husband
Laying their lives for the lives of the weak
A humble man giving up everything for an idea he believed in.
The idea of freedom and equity
He was broken in body but not in spirit
His pain would draw the light back to a generation riddled with darkness
His tears would be between him and his GOD
But his sacrifice was for all men
The sages say; in every generation, there are 36 Tzadiks (righteous hearts) on the earth
Sent to justify mankind’s continued existence before GOD
I believe Mandiba was one of them
A light in a dark society
A beacon of hope for generations to come
A seed of yesterday for a new breed of humanity
He came, he saw, he conquered!
Heaven has gained its angel back
A Star’s been lit up in the galaxies
And men will tell his story over and over again
RIP Mandiba!
~ GE
(From ‘Twelve Songs’)
XII
Some say that love’s a little boy,
And some say it’s a bird,
Some say it makes the world go round,
And some say that’s absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn’t do.
Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.
Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It’s quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I’ve found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway-guides.
Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.
I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn’t ever there:
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton’s bracing air.
I don’t know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn’t in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.
Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
Or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.
When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I’m picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.
