This is the first thing I've been proud of in days: The imperfection of worship- Cracking voices and out of tune guitars, Heartbeats that overtake the Tempo by a timid half-step
And that sole audience member That is shameless in singing,
His arms outstretched and his feet, Dancing for You And the Whatever Remains of this broken church Following suit, Singing and singing and singing With timbres soft, loud, high, low, Shattering glass and Letting go,
Still vastly outnumbered by The skipped beats and fumbled notes But ****** if they aren't gonna try to keep up!
God, This is the first thing I've been proud of in days:
Brothers and sisters that do not yield To the emptiness and the void That comes with worshipping You!
You, Who would too, alone sing for the return Of your own children, Who would close your eyes And weep in silence with a resounding "Yes!" At the sight of your sons returning, Your daughters returning,
Your chosen ones responding, "I'm coming home tonight!"