I am overwhelmed by my study of the Day of Atonement in Leviticus 16 to the point I am physically reacting to it. Translation is like playing chicken with God. After being blown away by His holiness, I recorded this cry of my heart, and I believe He wanted me to share it. So here it is. It is a fresh piano inspiration in Cm. “Be filled with the spirit . . . making melody in your heart to the Lord.” Ephesians 4
Woe! Woe! Sadness heaped upon Gladness crushing it into the stony ground.
Augh! That ilksome response to the anguish of agony writhing in a locked furnace
Wretchedness! That so many are mutilated, and shredded, lacerated with lovelessness.
Wicked! Foul empty catastrophes slake scrimmages of scum cauterized by needles.
Is there not a way that this pain can be expressed?
Is there not enough words leading to this forbidden place
Where hearts are un-wound with tears and sighing.
Must the cry of the earth continue to rise thus: How LONG O Lord?!
Blessed is the poor in spirit, because he can see the emptiness of riches.
Blessed is the one the Lord sets apart for Himself, so he can see eternity.
Blessed is the man who looks into the Word to find He who spoke it.
Blessed is the man who feels on his back the weight of Jesus’ cross.
Still they kneel and feed mouths open eyes closed
Their tongues lapping up the slimy, milky stuff that numbs their minds.
They’re reeling like drunkards blind searching for drink in a dark place
There’re no lights that can open the eyes of the drowsy.
How much uncleanliness can a soul bear, before it threatens to extinguish?
Breathe real air, my people. Do not suffer the violation of your sacred lungs.
Plant your foot on solid ground, do not go on swimming out to sea.
The mast upon which you lie will support you until you toss and turn.
Why?! This evil trenches itself into the good earth of God’s making
And plants itself a worthless, fruitless, and pitifully mocking weed.
You who wish to authorize such weeds to grow,
Do you so eagerly wish to eat the grass like cattle?
Earth groans– the roots of oak trees find them out
~ In secret seeking cool sustaining streams
The air feels thin while splitting on the flout
~ A piercing cry of music from my dreams
How old the marrow grows in once strong arms
~ Anticipating touch without remorse
Still waiting for beloved tender warmth
~ Returning swift received without recourse
Two dandelions blown in stormy breeze
~ Are stripped of new beginnings as they wilt
Believing sure their children earth will seize
~ Creative soil unseen new lives rebuilt
So short cruel time to sever love from love
~ Its wound agape awaits the Gard’ners glove