the ground outside my window looks like a blanket of regenerate hearts.
it looks like Christ's very wrath-absorbing, sin-consuming grace covering the dirty ground.
for some reason, it doesn't seem that my heart belongs in that blanket.
i am the ground underneath, the rotten, dirty soil.
it's so funny how Adonai writes the script to our lives...
it never seems to make sense, the plot is likened to a Bukowski poem.
maybe that's why i love Him.
maybe that's why i can never escape Him.
i am the stubborn, loved child pretending he is an orphan.
my Father made the sea. my Father made the stars.
"the sun and the moon are my Father's eyes."
maybe that's why i worship Him...
He leans in gently and whispers softly into my ear,
"My son, I make all things new."
so i bury my face in the blanket of my own justified heart and whisper
"my Father, i see."
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