G♾D

O Land of warbling Nightingales across
Th'Atlantic pond where golden Daffodils
Dance for the sheepish Clouds that shade the hills
And trees are emerald green with clinging moss,
My Heart is griev'd for thy most grievous Loss
Of Liberty as Tyranny fulfills
His loathsomest Designs and swiftly kills
The Speech that should be free, however gross.
Despair thee not.  The Lord of Love and Might,
Though he doth try thy Patience, He shall yet
Shatter the Teeth of Tyranny and set
The Captives free, the broken Bones aright.
Father will come (have faith, for God is just)
And resurrect the Tongue that tastes the dust.

God seems pleased with making me weak in these dark waters.
Not only is it night, but I am in the shark quarters.

I’m exhausted like long flights, mixed in with shark bites.
I’d rather jump down two flights than face this next wave of true fright.
    
My mind is turning like waves; I’m burning inside with all rage.
Before I head to my grave, I meet with endless caves.

These are unfixed depths, Nowhere to place my steps. This deep is cosmic; it’s gaping. Unplumbed and spacious,
It’s gaping and yawning,
Where vicious life is spawning.

I’m in a losing battle, you see, throwing sand at Helm’s Deep.
The deep is breaking my knees; I’m quickly drowning to sleep.

It was a good run or, should I say, a crawl for me.
Some really underestimate the hurt that this curse can be. It’s like You have Your back to me While also stabbing me.

I thought You were the faithful one, the one who healed the broken sons.
When You said “It is finished,” I never thought, “I’m the finished one.”

What happened to Your love for me? Will You ever come for me?
You said that if I came to You, You’d never let me free. Yet it’s a mystery how Jesus Christ has abandoned me.

Because of Your grace, I can say this race was a great run.
But what was the point if I didn’t know the raised son?
Now I’m in terror; I feel my faith is the fake one.

Since Jesus Christ is God, and I am not;
Since I am not my own creator, I,
Adam, shall seek no more to justify
Myself; for every tittle, dot, and jot
Has been fulfilled by Christ who's God of all,
The Adam hitherto I could not be,
The faithful Adam faithful now in me,
Adam redeemed and lifted from the fall.

The God of all the gods of nature, earth,
The kosmos, hades, greed, lust, war, and death,
Whose word is life, whose life is breath, whose breath
Inspires the wind that seeds the second birth,
Is Sin's Exterminator, Death's Decease,
Judgment, Forgiveness, Mercy, Love, and Peace.

when is is all there is where isn't was
and all the sky's inside a blue balloon
and everywhat is known to be because
too good is God to be believed too soon

then breathing breath doth verily become
(in spite of all the sayers saying nay)
a joy deflating all the threats of doom
since every doomsday dies before its day

Creation's whole, a single one who's I,
Who's you.  I'm talking to myself in thee,
O my most kosmic self who lives a lie
Called me and everyone who isn't me.
Space is my mind capacious with the in
finitely finite infinitum ad
The Word is God and every body's sin
Is mine that ever was and has been had.
God is salvation.  Christ is God who's love
With you and in your broken raging heart.
Broken, the light within you shines, the dove
Flies free, and everything is new.  Restart.

I am Creation and so are you.  Let
Go and behold the end that wasn't yet.

🌞🌏
🕊🌹🌴🐦🌳🐝🍒🦋🐿
❤👦👧
❤🔊👦👧🍎🌳👅❌☠
👦👧👍
🐍🔊👧❤🔊👧🌴🌳🌲❌
👧🔊🐍🍍🍌🍐🌴🌲👅
👧🔊🐍❤🔊👧🍎🌳👅❌☠
🐍­🔊­👧☠❌
🐍🔊👧🍎🌳📚😇👹
👧👀🍎👅😇
👧👀🍎📚
👧🍎👅
👦🍎👅
🤯😱
☠
🥀
❌🕊🌹🌴🐦🌳🐝🍒🦋🐿❌
😭

Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited,
Half-eased in that a Powerfuller than I
Has willed and meted me the tears I've shed,
I clench my fist and shake it at the sky

And at the vengeful God who hammers me,
Delivering the blows that break my brain;
The God who finds his deepest ecstasy
In violencing my life with blinding pain;

Who laughs and says, "Thou suffering thing, declare
If thou hast understanding: Who hath laid
The measures of the earth's foundations?  Where
O where wast thou, O man, whenas I made
The cloud the garment of the sea?  How dare
Thou, foolish man, thy maker to upbraid?"

O Lord, I am thy workmanship;
     And shall the *** of clay
     Unto the potter say,
Dash me to dust, for I've a chip?
                              Nay.

Perhaps the potter uses scraps
     For purposes the ***
     Would likely like a lot
If he but knew.  Perhaps.  Perhaps
                              Not.