Love is a mystery, divine and untamed—
God’s own breath woven into our veins.
A gift to humanity, pure and unearned,
A flame first kindled before the world turned.
Christ, the embodiment of that sacred cry,
A love beyond language, beyond why.

Yet our world parches, a desert undone,
Craving love’s rain, yet choking the sun.
We preach it in sermons, we hashtag its name,
But does our love rise from the altar of self?
Or is it a mirror, reflecting our gain—
A transactional echo, a hollow refrain?

Is it selfless—a seed cast in stone?
Or self-seeking, a harvest we own?
Does it bleed when it gives? Does it kneel when it serves?

Love is the whisper that silences storms,
A river, not rushed, as eternity forms.
It drowns every ledger, erases the score,
Builds bridges from ruins, knocks on locked doors.
Love is the mason, the mortar, the beam,
Planting gardens in cracks where the broken dare dream.

Love is the compass that points beyond me,
A lighthouse unswayed by the roar of the sea.
It carries the cry of the silenced, the scarred,
Sees strength in the fragile, and sings to the marred.

So let us love boldly, with hands open wide—
Not in theory, but dirt-on-our-skins sacrifice.
For love, though divine, walks barefoot and low,
A mystery we live, not a sermon we show.