Dear President Trump,
– – Hi, I’m Luke Ferguson. I’m your boss. My boss has some thoughts that he’s given me, and I want to pass them on to you.
– – The Truth is being suppressed. Your power is limited, but you can help. The Freedom of the Press and the Freedom of Speech apply to you just as much as it does to every American. Find a window where the Truth can be spoken that no media outlet can touch. Offer verifiable information, and so win the trust of your people. Call the nation, government, people, and culture to Justice. And let yourself be the first casualty of the movement. You know of whom I speak, when I reference this.
– – I hope and pray that our boss will be glad that He hired you. Show the world His love and power, the way Jesus did.
I feel like I should apologize for this. But history as my witness . . . I will not lest one can show me I am wrong.
The Generation rises to take their stand
Upon the political world stage
To fight for justice and freedom’s brand
That has inked the Declaration’s page.
The stage is set with prop and dot
Where powers quoth their scripted lines
And decisions break like winds of plot
Entangling their opponents in jungle vines.
How proud the idealist takes the floor
His eyes glazed by the light above.
He cannot see the long-locked door
Where no one cares to see or move.
The plays play on, the powers clutch.
The bills are passed, the upstarts fail.
But mighty arms of play power touch
Not the women who weep and men who wail.
Outside the theatre people starve.
The rich feast preying on the undeserving.
The French Revolutionaries carve.
A guillotine for the nerve-less head’s un-nerving.
So men will cast their ballots down
Like tickets to a show they’ll never see.
May God have mercy on the clown
Who thinks the world thus better will be.
The theatre will close. The powers scatter.
The people will seek out the purpose of living.
Then they will remember the soft pitter-patter.
Of the child they lost in their taking and giving.
Oklahoma got hit by tornadoes.
There was a sign reported on the news:
A cross hanging on power lines.
A woman said. “God is with us.”
This is my interpretation.
A cross hangs from the power-lines
Lifted unlit by the sun brightened clouds
The judgment of a nation brought down from the sky
Stopped short at the suffering servant raised up
Before the swirling torrent of the Heavens
Which could touch the land with fingers
Not a fist.
There are intercessors fitting into His palm.
Who pray that His hand might open.
He is good. But will He find faith upon the earth?
To you who pray for God to bless America, and to have mercy on us, but are unwilling to get involved, I have this word against you.
Why do you pray
And ask Me for things
When you are unwilling
To do anything
As a part of the solution?
Who do you think I am?
Who do you think you are?