"exodus" poems
I don’t know if you know
I carry you
in an involuntary sigh
in a constant exodus of yearning
and in the frantic deepness of all
nostalgic thought, shaking time and distance
to place me near you
in the closeness of your warmth
remembered
I carry you in sorrow
precipitated
in the absence of your voice
and in the memory of your rib cage molded
in the shape of ardent weakness
my embrace
I carry you, the braille at the tip of my fingers
life drawn in lines on my left palm
and in the carcass of calm interrupted
by the pounding of a heart’s ill-time
I don't know if you know, but
I carry you in the crown of memories consoled
and in the spine of excess
where I fall, between involuntary sighs
defeated
in your skin remembered
from the confines
of the heart
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 2:46 AM UTC
Sag my corpse
in 32 degree weather
through the city of God
where paraplegics dream of running.
“Oh Rhodesian mercenary,”
humble my soul again
like in C(hi)(ca)ongo.
But remember
The revolution starts
on my mama’s bed
at half past six.
So excuse me while I smoke my drink like a Brooklyn Leftist from the 40’s tramples
burning cigarettes on cold pavements where codeine and Sprite
make any Tuesday fabulous because we already suffered from (and for) the goods of mankind.
But before you read me the history of Hatchepsut;
I learned the art of man within the confines of FCC regulations after my ‘Pa threw ******* out the window and made life in the cell not mundane by telephoning philosophical-entendres
that tomorrow never happened.
He too was from the blood of the ancestors whose bodies were charred on as goods—
whose children now char their bodies with the goods of the goddess of Victory—
the official trademark for the lost Exodus—the blood and blue moribund—
sagging pyrrhic victories in 32 degree weather as homage to their charred ghost (fore)fathers
who preyed to the city of God for bread
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC
I'm writing this poem to be ignored
like many of you
I enjoy being a poet
of keen irrelevance
a literary luminaire
of solitude
a lost writing ghost
a megalomaniac haunting himself
a waiting oracle
waiting
for the occult muse door mouse to tap dance
whispering night babble
or having a cooked chicken fly into my mouth
while i take searing snapshots
of erratic images
puzzling them into words
from boundless burdens
of heaping intestinal bluesy aftermaths exodus of conscience
bruising my self like a ********* in heat
on out of control run-on rants
and blood razor drenched mysticism
while real men drive earth movers
drink bruskies
and kick ***
hustling time share Chinese handcuff contracts
and up sell social justice platitudes
fit for pie in the sky levitating hysteria
lives shatter like red ice
in endless cacophonies of skull clobbering effacement
I'm writing this poem to be ignored
and no one lets me down
Mar 20, 2019
Mar 20, 2019 at 3:32 PM UTC
Stupidity is a virus infecting and injecting large amounts of people at a time. He moves through minds with impeccable speed. Some people, no matter the treatments they receive will never recover. For is an Exodus with has the power to ****** masses. He is a force with the ability abolish revolutions and silence movements. Stupidity is chronic, never truly going away, always lurking in shadows waiting to attack. He is a survivor against all odds. Stupidity is perpetually kicking and screaming, fighting to remain the echo of humanity. Refusing to be ignored and never promising to stay quiet. Stupidity lives on amongst Gods and Kings, continuing to rule with an iron fist.
Apr 22, 2012
Apr 22, 2012 at 3:14 AM UTC
Passover Moon's
****** hue
eclipses
the ordinary
in veils of
miraculousness
obscure
rouge
halos
illume
elliptical arcs
guiding
footsteps in
a righteous
exodus
across
troubling
waters
forsaking
hovels
with
painted
doorjambs
dripping
lambs blood
Mezuzahs
bleat
memories
holy
murmurs
bespeaking
lamentations
of ancient
hosannas
our
desperate
supplications
flesh out a
distressed
humanity
seeking
deliverance
from the
vengeance
is mine
Elohim
may it
be nigh
we wait
watching for
an always faithful
Good Deliverer
to honor the
covenant
to lift
despair
with a
liberating
yoke
lugging
leaden
burdens
Oh Holy
of
Holies
banished
in the wisp
of a bitter herb
our
distended
bellies
fill with
unleavened
grace
sweet
droplets
of manna
consumed
with extreme
gratitude
arriving
at journeys
end to
promised
lands
fully
satiated
and free
to rest in
sanctuaries
of radical
hospitality
luxuriating
in an infinite
abundance
for all
sojourners
Selah
Music Selection:
Big Mama Thornton
Go Down Moses
Oakland
4/15/14
jbm
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
the LORD & I have been arguing for days
over four small words:
[thy will be done.]
let this be known:
never is there a bigger sacrifice
than compromising the cloth that has woven your soul,
choosing to burn its textile
rather than cling to its strong stitchings & worn-in, familiar pattern,
leaving you in nothing but incinerated rags.
I plea for maintained remains of
this combusted fallacy of joy,
whilst He responds with simply
[I am making all things new.]
please hear this:
there is truly nothing that can mend you here,
nothing that can weave you together &
save your heart from being torn
as a love letter ripped into shreds of its possibilities,
leaving you with nothing but
disintegrated
dreams.
my past is aching to become my present,
& my perceived future has begun to rewind.
my place in this world has become null&void;
without the hope I once held close.
for what happens to a princess
when her earthly prince continues to commit slow suicide?
[peace, My child.]
I can hear my bones screaming to be heard,
as songs on a broken record,
stuck on repeating the same old refrain:
*please please please please please…
[on earth as it is in Heaven.]*
night sweats--
when your mind cannot stop running even whilst you sleep.
shaking limbs—
when your heart trembles & begs to stay alive.
*[plans to prosper you, not harm you;
plans for hope & a future.]*
I’m strung out on all these things that keep me sane
while my mind feels like its going through
withdrawals of the Holy Spirit—
WHERE ARE YOU, GOD
& WHY IS THIS YOUR PLAN?
YOU DO NOT LOVE ME AS YOU ONCE DID.
[those who hope in the LORD renew their strength.]
laying on my bedroom floor
with hymns pouring from my mouth
like tongues of fire & bile
I feel farther from glory
than I ever have.
[He restores my soul.]
LORD
as Christ once begged of you
Take This Cup,
LORD
I plea
for deliverance
for reconciliation
for an exodus from this body that is
full of intoxication
& self-loathing.
[until the very end of the age.]
LET MY SPIRIT RISE FROM THE ASHES
& BE HEALED OF THIS HORROR.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 3:18 PM UTC
An irrefutable dream,
fulfilled tenfold in the illusion
made imperfect by dreamers' oblivion,
sought by the delver of selves.
Rejection of messengers,
the hive of deluded apathy
that saturates the air thick with the droning of silent hesitation
hexagonal compartmentalization,
sundering your cedar carapace,
which cancerous excess shatters,
and only cracks remain;
the afterthoughts of paradise
and undiscovered paths of depression,
an anxious exodus of life-force.
Part thine red sea,
lest plate tectonics make waves,
that cause molecules of hemoglobin to disperse in light,
the crimson tears of a soul,
sweeter than the lips coveted.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 2:10 AM UTC
I am an altar boy inside the Church of
Continuous Wasted Opportunities.
Smell that pungent incense?
It is most definitely all that it seems to be.
This God’s gift to mankind is what the three
wise men were really trafficking—bringing
forth a dank Exodus unto the Savior’s parents.
They didn’t inhale the serpent’s lure, of course.
Rejoice, one and all, across the land!
Hallelujah, all ye indigo children of the desert!
Now, a reading from the Book of Wardo,
verse four, passage twenty:
“And it was told that the ancient Aryana region would
offer up such magical wonderment, derived from the
sacred Kush bush, assisting the holiest disciples who
prefer a mystically passive respite—for these blessed
aficionados represent the completely frazzled and yet
cautiously chosen few.”
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 4:46 PM UTC
Work, Friday afternoon
And I'm at my wits end.
It will be over soon
Then it's the weekend!!
God but it does drag on
The longest day ever.
I can't wait to be gone,
Work to do? Whatever!!
There are not many here
Most are at vague meetings.
Others just disappear,
Out the door keep sneaking.
Oh God I cannot wait
To get out the front door,
What time would be deemed late;
Can I not leave before?
There's no work getting done,
We're all counting down.
It seems that everyone
Is mad to hit the town!!
When four o clock comes round
There is an exodus.
There's so much joy around
It's truly fabulous!!
No sooner do we speak
Than again it's Monday
And we spend the whole week
Wishing it was Friday!!
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 10:03 AM UTC
9/12/2014
consolation is a prize set upon golden sands that my feet are no longer invited to tread upon
solace is a faraway whisper that is only loud enough to be heard in my dreams,
and when i am woke,
all hope proceeds to dwindle,
and solace has gone forth to a new home,
and i am left to a melancholic hum which pierces my ears like the tip of a steak knife,
and i am left to sit
and dream,
but how doth the dreamer sing when all that is laid upon him is sorrow,
and how doth the dreamer pray when the exodus tears him apart from his mates,
and tell me how doth the dreamer love when all his life he hath known pain?
how does the dreamer live,
when he doth not see the light of the stars any longer,
when he doth not feel the warmth of the sun upon his nape,
when he doth not feel the wind outside his window?
the stars have gone dim,
the sun hath frozen outside of his dreams,
and the wind doth try to blow him away
away,
far away,
is that what the dreamer longs for?
what does the dreamer long for when life no longer fits his fancy?
i can say,
i do not long for death,
but maybe i do,
for i am like this dreamer
i once longed for the stars to envelop me in their light,
and the sun to shield me with it's warmth,
and the wind to wrap it's breeze around me
but now i do not know what i long for
the dreamer hath decayed,
the life has begun to rot,
the moon has begun to fall out of the sky,
and i am afraid of what peril i,
the dreamer,
may face
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 6:19 AM UTC
*Feelin’ like a new model keepin’ thoughts in a safe
Nothin’ but new beginnings while maintainin’ the faith
Of better days ahead, walkin’ away instead
The world on my shoulders while walkin’ on eggshells
Difficult steps lead to redemption, no need for attention
Dowsin’ my sorrows in drinks with a fear of reinvention
Weakened souls lackin’ ambition – ones that we attend to
Distracted by the means to makin’ profit
Pharaohs and kings reach Ozymandias
Castle of the manliest reduced to rubble
Inspiration's a privilege, the uninitiated struggle
Lookin’ to the stars closer to Mercury
Celebrating longer than a single anniversary
Build the padlocked building blocks of the brain, preventin’ burglary
Intellect protection needs remedial advancement
Followin' the lessons and morals of real testaments
Crimson waters divided by Moses, halving the sea
Aidin’ people across, the shepherd leadin’ the sheep
Heated cycle of violence by disciples
De-escalated by the sacred teachings of the bible
Able to color-code their understandin’ with a cipher
Gifted in nature, minus robotics turnin’ sentient*
WE MARCH!
*Hand-in-hand in unison! A unit full of sin
But we protect the world from Judases,
Our doubts are in the wind
A state of peace we feel the crew is in
The rest will follow soon,
Our inner voice of hate is ludicrous
It sings a hollow tune.
Leavin' this place without askin' just where the exit is,
Keep a steady pace as we're headin' right into exodus.
Lessons are taught to help you rise from the fall,
Nirvana awaitin' – you better answer the call.*
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 9:53 AM UTC
Enveloped in a haze of sullen clouds
Woebegone is the sky as it laments
Rain falls to ground in an aqueous shroud
Pooling its bleak anguish on the cement
All that is living drowns in the sorrow
Fearing long hours of the cold and despair
Hoping for warmth of a new tomorrow
No more melancholy could we ever bear
We mourn the sun's imminent exodus
As rain fall begins its sojourn of woe
And the joy of the sun's warmth leaves from us
To us the onus of grief it bestows
But with rain's end comes the tender sunlight
Ending the bemoaning war and sorrow's fight.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 5:39 PM UTC
Becoming... hmmm...
what am I... becoming...
is this the enlightenment
of my trip? hmm...
journeying through the seasons
of inner time and place...
therein which lies... a space....
not that sort.... not the sort of the
spicky icky spacky... space...
it's the... hmmm... sleepy space...
I sit and wonder... this place is where I... ponder...
fabric... the fabric of this life...
I AM FLOATING INTO THIS CHAIR
CONCEPT BANDS
CONCEPT ALBUMS
THAT'S WHAT I WANT TO SEE I AM JUST LIKE TIMOTHY LEARY
... but that... that is only a character.. the outlook I assume in..certain moods...
that state of worry... that's what I mean.
I am the wind
the sea
...
speak friend,
enter...
speak...
speak to me.
'I see we meet again... hmmmm...'
The music keeps changing my moods, you see...
Subconscious... I must be more mindful...
'Increase mindfulness'
I must bring the feelings... out
don't shove them away...
don't shove me away...
on this normal
squashy day
Love your dark shadow love the wolves
streams of consciousness I must cut up all of these streams
I worry too much about the future... am I crazy? or just afraid of being...
telepathy
Here's this concept that I have that represents all of these feelings that I have that I tell
to you and you receive as whatever feelings you associate with said concept
and hope they match up
I only write when I have something to preach... a sermon, you see..
yet I write every day...
to preach a sermon to me
'Does it make me bad?' this way I am?
does it make you.. mad?
mushy swampy bog filled mushrooms
I sag into the soppy plants in me
this world is my swamp
and this swamp is me
into the swampy swamp I romp
All day I ravage roam
I stomp
jive my vibe...
Exotic exodus execution
into the deep reeds
paddling the little cellophane canoe
Must... move...
Must... go...
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC
Beyond the lights and glare and joyous cheers
Outside the pretty things prepared to tear
It glows without joules or generators
Without lists and traditional movies
between gathered gifts and exhalations
mini mall masses travel plans, traffic
makes meaning of monotony, trees of woods
burning bright before menorahs first light
unquantified warmth while tilted from sun
unnamed it's ether a summoning drum
Before Christ birth or Alleluia sung
Close your eyes and see from glance where it comes
More precious than 34th street miracles
the motivation of cold breeze on leaves
The reason for seasons found in unity
Where shepherds staff birth red white epitaph
Where plants of poison rosy the living
When wise men exodus for genesis
Seven lights or Nine or just one big star
matters not the name or time frame in bloom
indiscriminately celebrate the Ohm
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 7:51 PM UTC
Self-loathing, in all of its malignancy, whispers
"You're worthless, just like him!"
my chest constricts, my ribs prison to a heart
that refuses to pound its percussive rhythm
The summer's dying!
the summer's dying!
and I, I am a rose
shedding my bloom in protest
the winter's passing, my only hope
Songs of exodus soon fill the air as crows ascend
painting the horizon black like an empty womb
"They always go" I whisper "They always go"
their melody haunting to those of us bound to earth
"we must go now!" "we must go now!"
bright eyes gleam, as each one sings
"we must go now!" "we must go now!"
promising freedom to those with wings
Bending low and curling inward, I lay
as my petals fall down around me
fluttering about like broken wings
migrant hearts, like theirs need open skies
so I found my freedom in the letting go
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 3:20 AM UTC
I am a traveler commuting on life's rails,
going station to station.
Disembarking at different destinations,
each time spent differently.
The car can be claustrophobic with passengers,
suffocating me in anxiety.
Other times, just a few of familiar faces,
friends, families, locals, daily riders.
Some talking, of life, nonsense, all or nothing,
each making their way.
There are times of light, above ground and of sun,
the rest tunneled, falsely lit, dark.
The sights of open land, buildings, and of the day,
the faces of love, hurt, hurried and grind.
Day in Day out this cycle goes on,
different,yet the same.
I am part of this mass exodus to get somewhere,
yet my commute is my own.
At times I arrive with many at the platform
bustling towards their tasks.
Trains for life come and go, expresses to locals,
roaring with noise, movements, purpose.
However, there are times i am the only one there,
Occasional train, in silence, alone.
Those are the days that my commute seems fruitless,
leaving me to wonder,
Have I just been passing it all by?
© J.L.Gonzalez75 09/2016
* this is a rough edit... am not a poet, but just write.
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 7:28 PM UTC
Dissappeared as if a dark cloud decayed the body in a matter of miliseconds and disposed of it somewhere unknown. Never did I see a single sign of being psychologically sick. Not one piece of evidence to prove her existence. Multiple memories of her wither away slowly. No discernment to the delphian disappearance. Very vague memories of her, perhaps she was a vision. Maybe, just maybe my imagination had gone too far with my mind. No! Her disappearance was real; but due to her irrelevance, and exodus she was forgotten in the conscious mind of others. Maybe its time that I finally forget about the phantom that haunts my memories, and makes me question my sanity. Gone she is, and gone she will be. So the acknowledgment of her existence is Irrelevant. She is now, and forever has and will be nonexistent. -V.H.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC
(Exodus, xvii.15)
By whom was David taught
To aim the deadly blow,
When he Goliath fought,
And laid the Gittite low?
Nor sword nor spear the stripling took,
But chose a pebble from the brook.
'Twas Israel's God and King
Who sent him to the fight;
Who gave him strength to sling,
And skill to aim aright.
Ye feeble saints, your strength endures,
Because young David's God is yours.
Who order'd Gideon forth,
To storm the invaders' camp.
With arms of little worth,
A pitcher and a lamp?
The trumpets made his coming known
And all the host was overthrown.
Oh! I have seen the day,
When with a single word,
God helping me to say,
"My trust is in the Lord,"
My soul hath quell'd a thousand foes
Fearless of all that could oppose.
But unbelief, self-will,
Self-righteousness, and pride,
How often do they steal
My weapon from my side!
Yet David's Lord, and Gideon's friend,
Will help his servant to the end.
2.4k
Treacherously torrid torrential tempestuous
The warrior on the mountain confessed to us
Sordid sully suborn salacious
Only the worst will ever keep pace with us
In extremis extremity exigence exodus
Is the answer clear to all of us
Intuitional intrepid impetus intrigue
Spontaneity's tortoise trauma fatigue
Heuristic horizon hornswoggle huckster
Or just another cauldron muck stir
Mystical magical manumission mandate
That only the good would ever relate date
Fornicating fecund finite's fate
I can only hope it will be I rate
Tirade treatise's transpicuous treachery
Adjunct juxtaposition may get the best of me
Estranged ensemble's ethereal expletive
Won't be contained, like water in a sieve
Wanton wayward warrantee wrangled
And all of that surreal newfangled
Omnipresent omnificent omniscient omnipotence
How I wish I could float its boat sense
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 5:54 AM UTC
cracked nose &
watching moose beside the river,
on video,
he cocoons himself
in room and drug elementals.
boy pupa.
boy biking thru fog
& urban light.
city mystics, city-wet faces.
primates.
he works the grill and grins
in back. lollipop jar.
he pours grease into trap or teeth of great beast.
bucket cathedral.
corpse of bird,
decomposing in the alleyway ravine.
he packs luggage for the exodus
to northern california.
wicker owl
burning in the woods on a solstice
drunk, or moon.
the fire & the girl & his tongue to her neck.
bathe;
drain the dirt and blood of weekend off
to porcelain.
combed hair.
to appear in the lawn of withered fruit.
he wheels his father to the zoo. the old man
is bent beneath a blanket and tapping his fingers
for elephants.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 3:01 AM UTC
It makes sense that a mummy was required
For the exodus out of my king rut
By wrapping me in silk and satin
And embalming me with love
But my brief time as pharaoh ended
A tomb at the pyramid I once attended
Thoughts of my sins plagued me
Did I get too froggy?
Or maybe he just met another sarcophaguy
Or maybe I misunderstood him
When he invited me over for desert
I wanted to conquer you
Like Brendan Fraser
Now I just want to talk to you
Like John Edward
I tried unearthing artifacts to channel your spirit
But your grave had been robbed
And after swimming in denial for so long
Wandering through the Sahara feels wrong
Your carefree kingdom is where I belong
But the evasive Ra warned
That the ghosts of snake charmers
Are abrasive and horned
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 1:50 AM UTC
Where does solitude end
And the beauty of love begin?
We must allow our emotions to permeate
Our spiritual vestibule
Before rapture dawns
Like an empyreal gust
Within, upon, and throughout us,
Then our bliss will no longer be ephemeral,
It will be everlasting.
Someone on this existential expanse
Loves you
Beyond words, Beyond thoughts, beyond
Time & space,
With cosmic understanding;
Like, age-old supernovae
Radiating with stellar light
Until their macrocosmic romance
Waxes nebulous:
—Dust to dust.
You who are gleaning these words,
Contemplate your immortal value
As a living legacy
That Burgeons & blossoms beyond the day
Of your exodus from the Earthly Plane
For the soul is a seed
Radiating with the Eradia of Ages;
Therefore, shine
Until The Flora of Yore, Yggdrasil germinates within.
Lamentation makes you more loving,
Just, wise, and strong;
Yes, embrace every moment
That life brings
For Providence safeguards you
Within His Celestial ramparts.
"But the path of the righteous is like the bright morning light
That grows brighter and brighter until full daylight."
(Proverbs 4: 18) (NWTSE)
You have an undying will within you,
You are a vessel of sanctity
Intemerate & hallowed;
Yes, you have been set apart
For an ethereal crusade
With no known beginning &
An indeterminable end;
Exhale, you are Life, Love, and Liberty,
And a Spark of The Divine.
It is true, that you are the experiencer of
Your joys, your sufferings,
Your exultation, and your woes,
But you must ne' er forget
That you are not alone;
Therefore, walk forevermore
In the Baptismal Rays of The Sun
For you were borne with purpose,
O, Warrior of Light.
Jun 4, 2021
Jun 4, 2021 at 1:48 PM UTC
blood now is the accoutrement.
night's tenure is the morning's
leasing: what will continue to
light like a beacon in this
vicissitude is the flash
of a snuff-nosed nozzle.
no sound is heard.
no bones were felt
trembling.
all the voices were muffled,
thrown into a makeshift exodus.
the pains will be etched away
like moss unraveling the secret
of wall upon wounds like old scarves.
but the ground,
which has girdled this resounding feat, will never forget:
death's squadron enters. harbingers.
what has hidden them in the lull
has now sung severances:
a distance closed
by a fusillade
of bullets.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 10:28 AM UTC
Before the thaw, my feet will be rooted
Into this nation’s primordial freeze
My muscles and bones will be acquainted with malaise
The sun’s altruism will be refuted
Before the thaw, I will struggle to find consciousness
The frost will leak through the bedroom window
And don the facade of a blanket
The door will prove to be bottomless
Possibilities will seem unachievable
The brain will itch for what it can not have
Buses will limp through congestion
And the blizzards may feast on the feeble
You may want to write of your misery
But your automation will halt in cataclysm
Because someone held a door open
For the gust that billows bitterly
Gastric emissions will become tangible
As smouldering wastes contrast against the sky with rancour
The wispy whites, marginalized into *****
And the world remains infallible
I will lack the tools of incision
To enact my life’s revisions
I will weep for my unguided millions
While I saunter into oblivion
After the thaw, I will smile
My expatriate soul will run in the whimsical wind
Of the morning dayspring that will march unto me
I will stand over a kingdom of honey-filled tiles
After the thaw, the arks will converge
Into the straits of the Bermudian Sea and the
Elusive Caspian Forest, where I will learn to love again
While bidding farewell to winter’s dirge
In the waking world, I will ***** a limestone castle
Where entropy will rule and the mind’s domain
Is left susceptible to perennial reverence
The sea, coloured true, nesting a fairgrounds vessel
In this Great Revision, gargantuan skyways
Will show the world how exiguous we are
That we must not wait for exodus to come
Should we fear to waste away
Into icebergs
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 5:35 PM UTC
Some people may not believe that Jehovah is God's name.
But just look in a Bible and I'll show proof of what I claim.
The Bible tells us that God's name is Jehovah, it's there for everybody to see.
If you want proof that Jehovah is his name, open a Bible and read Exodus 6:3.
Jehovah won't become angry or vengeful if you call him God or Lord, using his true name isn't vital.
But our creator prefers to be called Jehovah because God isn't his name, God is his title.
When we address a preacher as Reverend, that's only his title, his close friends would call him by his name.
Jehovah is the closest friend that I have so I address him as such and I hope others will do the same.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 8:24 PM UTC