The milestone hosannah

Take away this median, I will not just be the medium, but the source. On short notice I would like to concieve into you a different spirit. I'd to renew you with my enlightened insight, and captivate you with my self-produced piety and power.



No, I do not see into the everlasting nor do I understand the inner workings of eternity. I am not the infinitely righteous incarnate, but I am often defining myself by the thoughts of existential corpses. I will stand on these vanity based prophecies; I might curse your soul, but I will glorify my pride. It's not necessarily that I have a warhead planted at your head, but the shrapnel is coming your way all the same. Deception captivated my fathers generation like it has captivated mine. And in time, if I am not constantly aware of my speech I will leave a trail of humans caught in the confusion of my hypocrisy.

Woe to the one who speaks much.

Christ, you said your burden was light, but my burden seems to be a milestone. How can this be the plan? That you would have a carnal creep like me, to keep care to the King's most precious sheep? In retrospect to the relationships you blessed me with, I understand my depravity. With the depth of resolve came the struggle to vindication. In vindication and a search for comfort, I became the anesthesia for truth, and the sound of my voice caused men to cringe.

 Do the prayers dissipate the pollution, if the poison was my own solution? By my own hands, I cannot bring comfort to your weary shoulders, I can alleviate momentary pain, but suffering returns of it's own accord. By my own hands, I cannot muster anything lasting. Should you like to stay by my side, I will leave, and I will fade away in time.

I appeal to the mercy promised in abundance, destined to overthrow the earthly authority. I knows the ruins and wreckage among the temples will bust within the fire when the everlasting meets the definite. Thence comes forth the radiance of the Glory of God, and the cold nights will be no more. Sore eyes will find their renewal and nicotine tarnished tapestries will be washed with the blood of the lamb to be as bright as the sons of thunder.

Hosannah

Jesus Christ. A human ruler and a holy king, the suffering servant. I need my life in your hands. Drinking from your wellspring of life, the Spirit of peace and intimacy, I receive the proper words, not to vindicate myself, but to exalt the sacred heart of my beloved Lord. I rest always in my confirmation by this war language, knowing that I am ever-tethered to the sustaining Grace of my Savior.

Glorious light, the way is bright for those whom you call blessed.

Good Jesus, the treasure that you have bestowed at this wretches feet. Ten thousand upon ten thousand upon ten thousand blessings. The melody of your compassion breaks men at their ankles; raptured by symphonies of restitution, and by rhythms of resurgence we are compelled to weep at the feet of the bloody lamb, Son of God and Son of Mary.

As I breathe in the fragrance you were anointed with, I am reminded you were blessed by a prostitute, and you word is spoken through the words of a murderer. Your heart is the ignition and composition of compassion, and by your hand skeletons find skin and flesh. By your hand I find enough hope to sit and be silent and know that you are God.

Blessed be your name.

One thousand blessings and One thousand Curses

Perturbed.

Well, I'm either riddled with anxiety or I'm coercing myself into a drone state of apathy to alleviate the discomfort of feeling like a deadweight. I wonder if there is a difference between being sober and wild with apprehension and expectation, every turning corner a sensation. Still the same in the end. One thousand blessings and one thousand curses. I curtail the list of grievances and exalt with incense and mihr the good and sweet sounds. I apply the echoes of wonder to my daily doctrines and to my planned outlines of the destiny of all. Isn't that the requisite for love based hope, a fucking happy ending?

Still we are burning in our passions and our lusts and we are on fire with tension in our gritty bits as we try to give a fuck about each other. Dear God, I don't want to place aside that struggle for honest meaning for a little time groping your shame centered features.

We exchange stories collected from our hysteria. We are not still as we sigh and wish and wish and wish we could collect those elicit feelings captured in our perfect polaroids. I'd like to place my hand on yours to calm your quivering spirit. I'd like to place my hands on your shoulders and bring back a relaxed state to your heart. I'd like to introduce you to my freaky and fiery friends, whom all have nuances I find extremely charming. I'd like to see my mother console you through your difficult mind, past all the obstacles constructed, by you or my adversary.

I'd like to see a hundred friends gathered round a birthday cake, as every one of them sing to you to the best of their ability a song you probably hate. I'd like to see tears in your eyes, as you realize everyone of these people love you and would give anything for you. If I told you this, you would have a million objections, I know. But I wonder if the thousand blessings I'll pray for you tonight would outweigh the nine hundred ninety nine curses you place upon yourself.

My rotten soul would curse you one time out of spite. Out of its satanic nature. And I'll wonder if I'm the spitting image of my father. Adolescence counted by the clock of sexuality. You might ask if this is really true, if my issues are really this carnal. I'd admit that I'm a blasphemer like the rest.

I just hope, that with the one thousand blessings we got, that maybe my Brother-King can work out something.

For your soul and mine.

Lets, make a promise you and I. Lets value honesty and humility for the rest of our days. I'm convinced I'm wrong on so many accounts, and I keep losing track of those who keep me accountable. Summers surrendering back to the confines of my second guessing spirit can't keep me a child forever. I have to make these blessings work and I need to place confidence on something other than myself.

I have to try to figure the outlaying and arithmetic of my words and boundaries before I go doctoring blessings under laden with self-righteous curses. Every relational entity is fragmented by broken hearts, and I am weary from this asunder fabric we call a church. But it's a melody I can't criticize, as it carries the crucifix for my benefit.

Ten thousand upon ten thousand blessings poured out unto me. Call up the resistance and tell them their tears are for naught, I have a home in heaven. Come along. Cast down your burdens and spit your worst curse my way. Could we stumble into heaven? I'm sure my Brother-King could work something out.