Restless lines breeding restless lines of thought breeding restless lines of chalk on a street named after my fate,
Breeding restless lies to which I can’t relate (at least when I’m awake.)
Breaking boundaries and casting aside the presence of the living God for the grinning face on the other side of the glass,
Oh God, I swear this won’t last.
Wake up, O sleeper, and the light of Christ will set you free!
Oh, but could God accept such a sinner like me? I mean, Wake up, O sleeper, and the light of Christ will shine so brightly
that It’ll blind me, like Saul in the desert, lost without ears to hear or eyes to see.
Restless lines breaking down the borders I create to give myself space.
Oh, but my soul will find rest in God alone,
Except for when I am alone (in which case I run into the arms of lovers who will never speak, at least not to me.)
I remedy restlessness with anything that can bring a temporary thrill to my fragile bones,
I remedy depravity with more of the same, helpless, vile, and hell-bent on keeping me insane.
Find rest, my soul! Find rest, find rest, find rest!
Shouting “GLORY” from the mountaintops does nothing to delay my destruction if my devotion doesn’t leaving a gaping hole in my pride.
The arrogant bow to the mirror, not understanding that the tyrant who takes them by ineffectual mantras and trickery lies,
Savoring lies that taste so sweet on tips of our tongues.
BRING BACK THE LIGHT! Savior, save your people from the sins we so subtly savor. Labor! Toil in vain for the prize we so ruthlessly deny while pinning injustice on the God who is just, just, JEST! JESUS! If your death was spent on a selfish way to please us, objects of wrath in a fire that refines us, then your death was in vain.
OH, BUT YOUR DEATH WAS NOT IN VAIN! You, dying for the heartless, the shamed, blamed, inane.
My rebellion drives me insane! Deliver me from the pain. This body of death. Free us, Jesus, because we need you when there is nothing left.
But were the ground to open up and swallow us whole,
We couldn’t fathom such a grace that you would plunge your mighty hand into the earth to rescue from that hole those you would make whole.
Untie me from myself. Let my heart cry “Abba!”
Weave your words into the fabric of my soul, a tapestry depicting a broken life. Rewrite, placing blame on the life that was broken for us. And when we speak, we will speak words spilling from the mouth of God, pouring through our lips. And when the presence of God that overwhelmed our graves manifests, we will stare in amazement at the God who is closer to us than our skin.
Restless lines written restlessly across pages and pages of perfect lines,
Penned by the author of confusion, emotions gone awry in pursuit of some kind of transparency that keeps others at arm’s length.
But I know a story built out of perfect lines, lines written in beauty by the author of the broken author of crooked lines shouting death! I read a story about a man who took up two twisted lines and died for the freedom of the one who writes a hundred broken stories.
So I say to the author of my redemption:
Believe in me because I don’t think there’s a reality in my complacency.
Believe in me because every time I try to believe in me, my head inflates and my heart goes hollow.
Rend my reluctance.
Glass shatters at the bottom of the rounded staircase and…and…I…I got nothing.