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Desire Sep 18
Who was he?
Was he a sinless man, perfectly divine,
with a human body, heart, soul, and mind?
Was he a son and brother, relative and friend,
who chose to live and die, to rise, and ascend?
Were miracles performed? Did he multiply fish and bread?
Could he really heal the sick? Did he really raise the dead?
Was he a teacher and preacher, or was it all pretend?
Was he really crowned with thorns, judged, and crucified before men?  
Did he die for sin and suffer severe sufferings?
Was he a prophet, priest, and servant King of kings?
Did the earth quake, and temple tear, after his puncturing?
Was his glory reclaimed, and his honor received?

At the Father’s right, did he take a rightful seat?
Were his works redemptive, revered, and rendered complete?
Did the Twelve die in vain? Or did they precisely proclaim?
Do archaeological findings further support or negate the frame?
Was forgiveness his to give - or life - to those who believe?
Were the first-century claims true and correct, or falsely conceived?
Did early churches around the world conclude similar creeds?
Were plenty prophecies fulfilled, or were they too inadequate to concede?

Tablets, tombs, and temples found.
Inscribed stones, scrolls, and ancient ground.  
Charts, maps, and timelines studied.
Cultures — clashed; religions — muddied.
Doctrines debated and theories changed.
Some-thousand-years have passed. Still, this question remains:  
Who was he?

I’ll admit with all honesty, I know not all his ways.
I’ve questions unanswered; I’ve actions untamed.
I’ve a heart that knows failure, brokenness, aches, and pain.
I've a life that requires repentance; realignment everyday.
Yet, where my knowledge ends - thats where sincere faith overtakes.
I’ve a lot more to learn, yet, I've experienced a lot more grace.
How would you answer the question if you were asked this today?
Who was he? Who is he? What would you say?

Unapologetically and unashamed,
with confidence and boldness running through my veins,
in all fairness, humility, and meekness,
he is my strength, when I'm at my weakest.
My heart believes in full, and then sings my soul:
my Lord, my Rock, my Savior, my God.
Thank you, King Jesus.
The rule of the self is exalted above
any adherence to any thing/feeling.
Their notions of doubt ruling over existence and
is in the supreme station of reason and power.
It sheds the former existence of yesterday
inasmuch as we are always recreated.
The philosopher's stone which
can conceive of no other thought
except the originality of the self.

It drinks the seven seas as if a drop and
asks, "Is there yet any more?"
No authority save the intimate friend
can find its way here.
Every stranger is betrayed and
its chariot becomes outworn for the rider.

And when they look at themselves
they behold their powerlessness in
the face of every nation, which
simply makes them embark on
the conquest of their own heart.

Every listener is as a bullet to their
enemy.
Every truth is as a fallen warrior
for their Cause.
No wind is sufficient to curtail their
sense of direction.
Every human acknowledged is as a piece
of sand supporting their path.

There is no end to their perturbing of the skies.
The poem is unfinished as the scribe of
their tale is astounded by the
regeneration of their march.
autodidactic
Ces Aug 2020
My words are born
Of self-absorption
This eagerness for
Transmogrification of
A self that constantly fails
At this project of conception...

To understand the world --
This grand undertaking
Nothing but motions of futility
Yet I can't comply
I cannot submit
For I am the personification
Of incredulity.
I learned to stop taking your word
Because eventually they stopped
Carrying the same weighted truth.
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
Lean Harvests
by Michael R. Burch

for T.M.

the trees are shedding their leaves again:
another summer is over.
the Christians are praising their Maker again,
but not the disconsolate plover:
     i hear him berate
     the fate
     of his mate;
he claims God is no body’s lover.

Published by The Rotary Dial and Angle. Keywords/Tags: plover, skeptic, atheist, agnostic, Christians, god, creator, maker, fate, mate, berate, lover
Ritz Writes Apr 2019
The world will never heal your pain
With all the comfort to conceal, yet clothed in stain.
When you go astray with each mundane days
Throwing the fist up in the air
The concept that ponder, "we will find salvation in His care"
Yet you still can't help but wonder,
"Does He ever heard our pray'r?"
Can I find the God in a man
Holding a grip over my own reality
May I not go insane.
Lurking around darkness
Trying so hard to clean up the mess.
Did my prayers go unanswered?
I, a skeptical human
Won't give up the question in vain.
Like the flower in the rain
Let the wounds open
Rescued from the Lion's Den.
Skeptic & cynical yet the little spark of faith still remains. ⚡
Sudeshna D Feb 2019
Do you feel it when
Your mind is drifting to
Someone other than
The one you’re talking to?
I ignore it as often
As I think I can possibly do
But do you realize the space
Captured in my head by you?
I know not what to call this
It’s breathable and new.
I do not want to spoil this
Fearing what it’ll turn into.
The paranoia of losing it
Is what I’ve already grown into.
Conservative, feeble, shy?
Call me whatever you want to.
Saint Audrey Dec 2018
Did you
figure out how to feel
I've bled
Into all the colors here

Destined
To somehow die alone
I still
Don't understand the throne

Reverence
The summit's height
To capture
Finally fading light

It's all over
Before its begun
It's all over

Wonder why I can't give a ****
Something in the air's got me ******
I don't know, I just woke up
What can I say?
Stark Nov 2018
Rocking your head back and forth
Disbelieving faces stare
As you cry for mercy
Quietly going insane

Dropped through the hole
Feeling nothing at all
As you saw what the world could be
Reality and fantasy kaleidoscoping

When you awoke--
The brightness was gone
Vanished from your mind
And your ideas seemed inconceivable
--to the others

Oh, the others
The disbelievers
The skeptics
The ones that refused to open their mind

Possibility spreads like a tree from a single root
But they are unable to see it
Instead, they dismiss you
Send you to the sanitarium
Where your screams of madness can be heard
Even today
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