You live like machines,
grinding gears,
perfect gestures,
empty hearts.

Smiles rehearsed,
compassion outsourced.

You preach love,
but it never leaves your lips,
nor enters your heart.

You took the living truth
and caged it in rules.
Castrated the wild gospel—
cut from it the mystery,
the mercy,
the Truth.

Reduced it to performance,
tradition,
nonsense.
A step-by-step script
for staying the same.

You starved shepherds,
leading flocks to mirages.
You count the sheep,
but ignore their thirst.

Genuine experience replaced
by hollow expectation.
Wonder traded
for rules you bend in secret.

You demand conformance,
but have never been transformed.

You speak of light,
but live in shadow.

Oh wicked elders,
lay down your tools—
we are made in the image of God,
not forged from stone and wire.

Each soul is a melody,
unique in its tune—
some soft as a whisper,
some bright as the moon.

Your heart holds the tempo,
your spirit, the key,
a symphony woven
of all you might be.

Some days, just a flute-note,
light, floating, alone.
Some days, a full chorus—
deep, resonant, strong.

Don’t envy the songbird
who sings in the shade,
or scorn the bold thunder
that won’t be delayed.

No note is misplaced here,
no chord is a wrong—
just life, ever-tuning
the lines of your song.

So play without fearing,
let dissonance pass.
The world needs your music—
no voice sings your class.

Hopeless is the heart of sorrow,
rattling through a hollow world,
drowning in its own emptiness.

Yet within the ache,
a voice awakes—
Soft as a mother’s song,
drifting through the morning mist,
calling her beloved home.

Gently,
oh gently,
ever so softly,
she rocks you—

Wake up, wake up...
You are fast asleep,
dreaming you are awake.

My love,
you are safe.

Here.
Now.

Cradled in silence,
within the endless womb of God.

It matters not
where I wander,
nor which road I tread—
I find no peace.

I call to You,
my Lord… my Lord…
Where are You?
Yet the heavens remain still.

And it matters not
what gold I gather,
nor whose hand I hold—
I feel so hollow.

Once more I cry,
my Lord… my Lord…
Where are You?
But again, heaven is mute.

Long I journeyed—
faithful in seeking.
I scanned each horizon,
knocked at every door.

Until at last,
with nowhere left to run,
and nothing left to reach,
I fell—
into the fire of despair.

So I turned—
not outward,
but inward.

Into the silence I once feared,
I sank.

There,
alone in stillness,
I met the depth of my own soul.
I laid down all searching—
and realised—
You’d been here all along.

My Lord… my Lord…