If you don’t find peace with mystery,
you’ll probably go insane.
There are some things in life
that do transcend your brain.
“My brain is God; I made it so,”
we do so oft protest—
as for control and sense of stuff
we do so often wrest.
I love to delve in quests and search;
please do not get me wrong.
But what’s it worth (no joy, no mirth)
when I can’t sing a song?
Put a brick
on her head.
She’s growing
too fast.
She’s cuter
this way—
pays attention and
does what you say.
Put a brick
on her head.
If we don’t,
then this will
not last.
She’ll start
asking questions,
not follow
directions.
Put a brick
on her head.
We’re scared.
We don’t know
what she’ll do.
Keep her at
basics: 2+2.
Put a brick
on her head.
“I was in your
corner, but
you didn’t see.
Too afraid
of me
being me.
“You were taught
to be scared of you.
All I wanted
was for us
to be true.
“Lies don’t
become me;
they look bad
on you.
There’s no need
to numb me;
it’s time that
I grew.”
The subjects we dance
around. Why?
We feel safer
in the dark.
But I don’t want
to be in the dark;
I don’t like it
here.
It’s scary.
It’s in the dark
that things go
fester, unseen.
Why?
We’d rather rot.
Rather rot than
be seen for
who we really
are.
No,
I don’t want to.
I don’t want to
rot.
The “awkward” child.
Saying the quiet part
out loud.
I don’t want to
rot.
I’d rather be
in the light.
Look ugly—
at least until
the things I
thought
were me
disappear—
burned away
in the eternal
flame.
The everlasting
fire of
God’s love.
So, call me
a candle.
Let me burn.
I will say
the quiet part
out loud.
Why do
jesters often
speak the truth?
Why did
Jesus talk
in parables?
Why did David
pretend
to be mad?
What are pearls—
but beauty from pain?
Riddle me this.
Why the foolish
to shame the wise?
Why the lowly
to address the king?
Why the shepherds
and the wise men
and the baby
in the animal
feed bin?
Riddle me this.
Idols of any kind
are knocked down
whenever we
set them up.
Leaders fall
off pedestals
we build.
Have we missed
the genre
we were
written in?
Mistook comedy
for tragedy?
Riddle me this.
Did you miss it?
Nails pierced
hands and feet.
Three days in the ground.
Rise up!
Meet and greet.
Dear Galatians,
Remember me?
Commissioned by
the Father, not by man.
(And not by your local
hotshot prophet
named “Stan.”)
There’s only one True Gospel—
no add-ons.
No sequels.
There’s only one
I AM, and He already
wrote the prequel.
There’s only one
“I’m Finished.”
There’s only one
“My Bride.”
There’s only one
True Lord—
lights up the dark
on the inside.
There’s only one True Gospel;
there’s only one Salvation,
only one Yeshua
who leads you off
sin’s plantation.
What started with grace
won’t be perfected by
the law.
Any plan to do so
has a crucial flaw.
Life breathed by Spirit
is not rule chiseled in stones.
The fruit of legalism
is a valley of dry bones.
Dry bones, try bones,
do-it-all yourself bones
leading yourself to groans
and moans locked outside
heaven’s gate but not by
God’s will; you just stopped
yourself before you even
climbed up that hill
empowered by the Spirit
where a full meal waits.
(Please, no hates!)
Selah.
thejoydetective 