Ransom Paid

My Word is withheld until I speak. Therefore I seek its return to the womb of my hand, so that the fetus of the Spirit might mature within me; so that the gestation period in my sentence of death will spring with new life as the flower breaks crusty, dirty earth from an embedded seed to show its raiment, finer than Solomon's garb.

Pastor, I beg you, implore you, GIVE ME BACK MY WORD.

Without it I wither just like a seedling in desert sand. My roots too shallow in the world of God, my foliage too frail to receive the fullness of the brilliant glory of the Son without my life-giving water.

Pastor, I beg you, implore you, GIVE ME BACK MY WORD.

Good night.

The Eventual, Unavoidable

Meditate on your death for a moment.

The room you are in will no longer occupy you.

The people you know can no longer speak to you.

Your body will decay.

There is no way around it.

Does this give you perspective on the things that matter?