When I was younger I took a lot of shortcuts
But when you’re older and you hit a brick wall
You have to wait
Wait for a process that grinds you and turns you to zero
You have to learn and embrace a process that molds you into something different
Something not everyone will embrace or want to be a part off
You have to love a process that isolates you and molds the true you
When I was younger I used to take shortcuts
But there are no shortcuts when you’re young or older
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
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.
Funny how just about everyone has the name Jesus on their lips, yet if I say I saw Jesus you’d be the first to commit me to an insane house
I would say I saw Jesus, but it was the spirit of Ephraim that led me, and the words of Yeshua that saved me, yet salvation is a soliloquy
I shouldn’t be allowed to do a lot of things. Yet freedom has perfected craft. They seek my craft with an empty heart, and fill the gaps with selfish knowledge.
Now craft knows not Salem, and Salem is devoid of Yehu. The big white whale is now a demon for trying to protect his own, and moby’s story is no better than an ignorant matrix trilogy
The writers, the writers! The storytellers are liars, no more than vanity and vain theories. Making us chasers of chaos, for a single butterfly effect to complete perfection.
If only we knew, if only we knew! We would cry out for a glimpse of your faith.