Abreast the Thames river strong,
On which boats form a throng
There is a city known to me.  
A city that's yet to be free.

Pulsing streets, and royal treats
Do the senses overwhelm, But I must entreat:
Who is it, in this city, at the helm?

Is it the people, bright and cordial with which the power reigns?
Or is it the river, majestically flowing, because she never wanes?
Is it he who sits in gaudy parliament seat with subsidized meat?
Or is it the crown who owns every meter and every beat of every poet and every street?
The church? Nay, there are no need for tithes, as the tides, the VAT is high.

The dark beauty rumbles through, not standing, she waves goodbye.
She bellows through London, intrinsically free.
Her Majesty seeks her union with the Sea.

Unbridled by pence and pound,
Thames continues down, down, down.
In London, though quite the town, she flows Eastward bound,
For she will not compete for her rightful crown.

I once was afar off but now am near
O God, have mercy on me, a sinner
My vision, once blurry, is now so clear
Through thy son I am proclaimed a winner

Perfection died and bled upon that tree
So that I may one day enter your rest
Perfection died that I may perfect be
Dear Lord, please now hold me close to thy breast

Since all the world will one day go in flame
And one day all will bow before thy Son
I should dare not trust in my own vain fame,
only boasting in Your victory won

O dear Lord, I pray for my enemy
I pray that one day he too will be free

What is it?
No one knows
But everyone has an idea

The theologian's heart sits heavy in his chest.
He has searched, sought, and out-thought the best.
Yet, he has nothing to show for his quest but gray hairs and a book nest.

Scoffers scoff as scoffers do.
Such is expected, for the Way is few.

The theologian needs not a pat on the back.
Nor gold, for he has no lack.

He knows that of making books there is no end,
He has no credit by which to lend.

Still he writes, and still he reads
Still he taps, and still he kneads

Until his heavy heart stops beating.
Now he'll see if his theology was fleeting.
Such it was if not God he's meeting and if not Christ he's greeting.

Thank you Father for your Son
Who started more than we could have begun,
Who finished more than we could have done.
Thank you Father for your Son.

Thank you Father for your Son
Who's by your side to intercede,
so that when we pray we'll be heard indeed.
Thank you Father for your Son.

Thank you Father for your Son
Who died up upon that tree,
so that you could forgive a wretch like me.
Thank you Father for your Son.  

Thank you Father for your Son
Who was by a ****** woman born,
so that we could sing new songs some morn.
Thank you Father for your Son.  

Thank you Father for your Son
Who is God--one and three,
Who walks atop the storm-churned sea.
Thank you Father for your Son.

Thank you Father for your Son
Who's mercy and grace reaches all,
that we may be redeemed from our fall.
Thank you Father for your Son.

Thank you Father for your Son
Who started more than we could have begun,
Who finished more than we could have done.
Thank you Father for your Son.

Why must we wear these masks day in and day out?
Why must we be ***** within and clean without?
Why must we be full of dead men's bones, though we shine in the light?
Why must we march in this parade and fight in this brigade with all of our might?

Perhaps the answer is not as simple as it seems.
Perhaps only false light beams.
Though I do not know, nor can I,
I will keep trusting Him.
And by and by, we shall see why
Every morning no matter how grim,
Our shiny mask wears a grin.

There He lay in the grave. Nay, but not for long.
The Author of life had been written death.
The light of God engulfed by the darkness of men.
For three days, darkness appeared victorious. But such was an illusion.
There exists no real victory in darkness, no true triumph in evil.
The temporary rule of wrong is always doomed.
And on that day when He arose, 'twas a reminder for those--who three days earlier had delivered blows--that while God's light may grow dim, it cannot be extinguished at the Devil's whim.

A Revolution rumbles under the noses of the ignorant.
Silent, but not voiceless.
Gentle, but not weak.
Pacific pandemonium pulses privately
Illegal thoughts fire through the neurons of millions
Banned words are proclaimed fearlessly.

Death is threatened to the revolutionaries.
But they have already been promised life.
"Have no fear" shouts their leader,
"For they cannot **** the soul."
How far will they go to break the mold?
They ask, "For how much was your soul sold?"

The revolt is by those whose souls are free
It is the cure for a universal disease.
The revolution will bring the powerful to their knees
And the enslaved to their release.
They beg: "Join us..."
"Be free."

Out there—lost in a sea of blue.
Somewhere between dusk and dawn waiting for that golden hue.

The weather is changing.
I am changing.
God is apparent.
You are beautiful.

It's not about you, it never was.

It doesn't matter how cheap you're selling hugs.

You're still selling them.

And you can't buy love.

I remember the look in your eyes
when you first thought of leaving me.
Perhaps I could have put the fire out then
with an "I love you."
But the naturalist inside me decided
to let it rage

I remember where I was when you
realized you were too good for me.
I was selfishly basking
in your company.
Perhaps I could have said something
to make you stay.

By now, you are probably
halfway to the place you
fantasized of being while
you were with me.

I remember when you left.
And I bid thee farewell.

In my youthful pride, I forgot how quickly death can take.
How he can come and then be done and leave destruction in his wake.

With bright eyes gleaming, I forgot how dark the night can be.
Then night came, with no stars beaming, and none could the dawn foresee.

Yet it was here, in this darkness, that the light began to shine.

__

Overwhelmed by grace.

God can win your heart as well.

Beauty's found in him.

—

We are just brain states.

Hurling toward nothingness.

One day we will know.

Unmistakable.

That rotting flesh smell—fresh death.

O, Lord, come quickly.