Identity of Blood

Behind my shoulder someone is watching me. Keen to keep pace, to guide my steps. Imperfection has made its way into their words, and death flows from them into my life. Death flows into life. Love is to risky, to dangerous. We have to keep close to the shadows, we can’t be seen or heard.
My voice spills out words into another’s life. I am watching over their shoulder, keen to keep pace. My words have always been known to be laced with imperfection and pride. But who could I tell that to? They will devour me like wolves. They will leave no way out.

I see now how the cornered channel their frustrations into their children. Poison is passed from one generation to another. We would die for that poison. We would die for our pride. Thankfully, you don’t have to work to hard to die, the poison is potent.

My ancient fathers spoke of liberty and justice. 

What is that to the soul? 

When do I feel the hammer of liberty and freedom separate the sickness from the love? 

Where is liberty from pride?

I’ve felt pride capitalize and customize the quarters in my heart. I’ve known pride to prey on those sick lives, the ones I loved most. And at PRIDES DEATH, seven more return. SEVEN MORE in its place, seven more bring their deathly stench to replace.

Where is liberty from pride?

When, ancient fathers, would we make it home safe and sound? Where ancient fathers have you made your home? Are we included? Were you going to insure that promise with your heart, and did you lose all sight when you lost your passion? Did you speak false hope out of fear?

Am I dead to you?

Are you dead to me?

Can you feel the cost of  your pride?

 I can feel your wounds now. I see your intentions rise up inside of me. I hear your words on my lips.I understand your dead words and I know what your tired teeth were trying say.

I get it now, but I feel the weight of your losses.

The weight has taken its toll. It grinds against my bones and gives me fury while I sleep.
Further and further and deeper and deeper the anger treads. Down to the darker corners in my heart wrath resides.

Parts of me have died because of this poison! Sacred and sweet parts of me.

God I hate it all.

Dear God.

God, sometimes you burn in my bones like fire. Your ministry of reconciliation is the warmth of my skin.You inspire the spark in my eyes. But days like now, they aren’t like that. They are days when I feel dull and used and torn and broken. I don’t feel like a joyous celebration of Gods glory.

I mean, I still love you. With all my heart. And I want to love those who hurt me. I want to love myself, despite my error. I get carried instead by ghosts and old fumes of denial. Not by you. I have to speak the truth.

I have been ungodly and impure. And I have violated myself with pride and hate and despair.
I don’t want to be ashamed to see you. I don’t want to be full of death.
When I look at you I see a deeper truth than all this brokenness. I see sober-hope but still a spectacular redemption. A family becomes a grand bride, made pure and anew, by the murder of sweet Christ. The death of my sweet brother-king for the holiness of a dead people. New Identities, from new blood. We are born in dead blood, but reborn of living blood.

The truth counters the weight of the trespasses. My identity is not found in my heritage or actions or experience. It is defined by that First Heir of the New Kingdom. 

My Brother-King is the only one who weeps with me. He groans in ways to deep for words.

During these summer nights when I cant hold myself from thinking of death he comes around.
Sweet and majestic and quiet he sings me through.

In Malachi it says God has a book of remembrance. So do I Lord. I will remember what you do.

I will remember your kindness to me.

I will remember your kindness to me.