A subtle glow illuminates my spirit,

Fueled by the flames of both doubt and belief.

And if I stay quiet, I softly hear it,

Inhaling hardship, exhaling relief.

It measures itself to the spinning globe,

The one that sits loosely upon my shoulders.

It’s filled to the brim from lobe to lobe,

Ever growing fuller as I grow older.

It reels and wobbles with the passing time,

Struggling to stay straight, or at least upright.

As I grapple with reason to maintain rhyme,

So the world and my soul do fight.

Often darkness imposes its demeanor,

Closing my eyes to whatever is, or might be.

It’s not that evil thinks himself keener,

He simply wishes he could see what I see.

And by switching off my sight he hopes,

Or prays, perhaps, that he may.

But although he entangles my mind with ropes,

My spirit will not vision relay.

So as my tunnel is acutely narrowing,

I find no fear here, below.

Instead, I rebuke all that is harrowing,

And abide in my soul’s subtle glow.


One by one he shapes them,

forms them from the dust;

one by one he scoops them up

and breathes them into life.

They begin as lumps of clay,

crude and unassuming,

they begin as heaps of earth,

lifeless, lacking form.

Alone they would be nothing;

alone they would not be,

but the Crafter takes them up,

gently, in his masterful hands.

They wriggle and writhe as infants,

they wrestle in the cradle of his hand;

eagerly they await his touch,

gladly they sense his love.

Moment by moment they are sculpted,

taking shape with every prod;

with meticulous care they are sculpted,

softly coming to life.

They’re unaware of their miracle,

unable to see their own birth,

but their Crafter is one of a kind,

and they are his works of art.

They feel some sense of his presence,

but he doesn’t command their life;

he forms them in love and affection,

but releases them to their freedom.

They exit his hands in perfection,

each a masterpiece of life;

they leap from his hands with vigor;

there are no two alike.

Day by day they’ll unravel,

both the world and themselves;

the world will erode their splendor,

down to their very core.

And there what awaits them is mercy,

in the form of a signature, a seal;

a stamp of ownership by the Craftsman,

a tag of love on the soul.

Hopefully then they will realize

their Creator, their Crafter, their Source;

hopefully then they’ll return

to their Crafter, the Holder of life.

Generation Lost: A Song


We don’t know what we have done

We’re lost, we’re blind, we’re young

I said, we don’t know what we have done

Oh, we’re lost, we’re blind, we’re young

I made a lot of mistakes in my past

But I refuse to live there

I made promises I knew wouldn’t last

But I refuse to dwell there

I built up walls and hid with my mask

But I refuse to stay there

I grew addicted to drinking my flask

But I refuse to go there

We don’t know what we have done

We’re lost, we’re blind, we’re young

I said, we don’t know what we have done

Oh, we’re lost, we’re blind, we’re young

It hurt too much, it cut too deep

But I needed something ‘cause everything was far too steep

I let my angst out, I let myself go

But I let myself down, and now I know…

I’m not the only one that I’ve let down

But I was dragging everyone else to the ground

I was breaking hearts and shooting moons

I was digging graves and labeling tombs

But then you broke me, shattered on the floor

Showed me your mercy, told me there was so much more

You gave your life, crucified that I might live

I take and take, when all you do is give and give

So hear my cry, I lay me down

I’m laying everything beneath your crown

‘Cause without you, my life is none

You’ve taken all my sins… they’re undone

Oh, forgive us for what we have done

We’re lost, we’re blind, we’re young

I pray, forgive us for what we have done

‘Cause we’re lost, we’re blind, we’re young

We’re young, we’re young

Forgive us, we’re young

Forgive us, forgive us

Forgive us, we’re young

I pray, forgive us for what we have done

‘Cause we’re lost, we’re blind, we’re young

I have to say that this was inspired by James Arthur’s twist on Tulisa’s song, Young. It really resonated with me about how lost a lot of my generation is. I’m also reminded of the story of Christ’s crucifixion when he says, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” I know there’s a lot of hurt and pain in the world, but I honestly hope that people will find the peace and the refuge that God offers through Christ Jesus. He suffered the ultimate pain, separation from the Father, that we might not have to. It breaks my heart to think about the number of people that are lost, not knowing what they’re truly missing. So, here’s my spin on a song, unleashing part of what I feel inside.

The Lines of Life

Each vein embossed on the back of my hand is a story

And every wrinkle in my skin spins a fetching tale,

That when listened to entertain and, dare I say, regale

With episodes of love, of adventure, and of glory.

Though rarely they are listened to, not so often heard,

They share whispers of wisdom and experience,

Like the value of persistence, of courage, of resilience,

If ever you might endeavor to hear their soft words.

Many a man boasts in the knowledge that he possesses,

“I know it like the back of my hand,” he declares,

Aloof to the fact that he is not the slightest bit aware

Of the savvy that he so fiercely, but falsely, professes.

So with warning I admonish that you study well your lines,

That you would only flourish from the passing of your time.

The Epitome of Love

We sometimes wonder why our lives are so rough.

We work and play hard, but it’s never enough.

We struggle with anger, greed, and remorse.

We ponder our purpose, we question our source.

But while we may have been born into flaws,

We were created in perfection by a perfect God.

While we may have stumbled and gotten ourselves lost,

Christ has made us a way by the cross.

And though he’s our King, he gave up his life

That we sinners might be saved by his sacrifice.

Humble and perfect as our High Priest,

The stranglehold of death has been released.

The weight of our chains burdens us no more

And we, like majestic eagles, soar.

The devil believed he’d hatched the perfect plan,

Holding in his clutches Jesus, the man.

But what he didn’t realize about his scheme

Is that Jesus Christ is the King who redeems.

He overcame evil, he conquered death,

And he offers to us his life-giving breath.

All he asks is that we walk by faith,

And for that he pardons our sin by his grace.

We need not grovel, we need not beg,

For he freely gave his life in our stead,

That we, in heaven, could commune together,

Bathed in his mercy and love forever.

So even though doubt and fear may invade,

There’s a God who loves, a God who saves.

He counts our sins and he finds not one,

For he looks at us as he does his Son:

Righteous and pure, we’re no longer stained,

But washed by the blood of the lamb who was slain.

So with sin, chaos, and darkness aside,

The glorious Groom takes us as his bride.

He cares not of things that we call the past

But he offers a hope that eternally lasts.

He soaks us in glory that we are not due,

But in the eyes of the Lord, we’re perfect, too.

There are no words to describe how he loves,

But because of the cross, we know that he does.

And so I’ll urge you, again and again:

When he knocks on the door of your heart, let him in.

Ever Pray

            People often think of prayer as an activity, something sporadically done or routinely practiced. For some it’s a necessity while for others it’s an absurdity. It can be done in large groups or in the stillness of solitude. Hands may be tightly clenched or open to the skies. Heads may be bowed to the floor or raised heavenward. A prayer can last an hour or a brief thirty seconds. Either way, it’s an action. And, in all of these forms, prayer starts and ends.

            But, I don’t want my life to be a broken, start-stop dialogue with God. I want it to be a continuous conversation with him. I don’t want our relationship to be confined to the limited number of minutes that I set aside for prayer. Because, even if I prayed five hours a day, every single day, it’d still be a mere fraction of my already short life. I would miss out on eighty percent of what God wants to share with me. Now, don’t get me wrong. I think individual prayers are essential. I just don’t want them to be the only time I spend talking or listening to God. I want my entire life to be a constant outpouring of prayer to God. Therefore, my heart will be my prayer. My soul will be my prayer. And my prayer will be my life.


I sometimes feel like a tiny ship on a great sea,

And it seems as if God has forsaken me.

My hull is breached as I lurch in the waves,

Battered by storms that linger for days.

They even prolong for weeks or for years,

And alone I fear I may drown out here.

There are no stars up above in the sky,

Thus I have no compass, no voice to guide.

I stagger to the bow and fall to my knees,

Convinced that God has forsaken me.

As I cover my face in soaking wet hands,

A power within me compels me to stand.

I sense a light that’s begun to break through,

So I look to the heavens and God says, “For you.”

The sea is steadied, the clouds are dispersed,

As peace both blankets my soul and the earth.

I have no words to express what I feel,

Secure from the nest below to the keel.

And I shift my gaze from soul out to sea,

Knowing that God will never forsake me.