Nameless guilt
hangs over every lyric.
would not touch it, living on the cusp
raging wanton lust against a burning front.
All I can think of; peacock feathers, fireflies
proof in my mind.
But his, besides
is the love of his lover, the acceptance, the forgiveness
the conscious-numbing divide.
Perhaps it is all too well
Christmas is a reflection of the fall
a draught of religious fantasy
combined with consumerist orgy.
Failed market systems still sell well.
I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry.
I’m sorry that this brokenness leads to vengeance.
I’m sorry your turning has hardened your heart’s yearning.
I’m sorry that I am a poor ambassador, and the steeple’s
door
has clanged shut
Shutting you out.
A love letter of judgment.
Bent,
un-condescendingly,
When the One you ought to know condescended so breathtakingly.
He humbled himself, taking on Flesh.
And, to the point of Death.
He it is, I yearn, for you to know.
This Christmas I pray His love would be shown.
to you.
So your P.h.D. theories
would tremble beneath
the weight of His glory.
So your excuses and bitterness
would melt
from the heat of His brilliance.
So your distance and this divide
would be bridged by
His Coming.
Blood-shedding Love rumbling across the centuries
“born for such a time as this” and yet has never heard.
Blood-shedding Love rumbling across the centuries
“born for such a time as this” and yet has never heard.
This Christmas I pray for providential hearing.
Not just for him, but for all divided from Him.
