I see the crowd but there's nobody out there. Nobody that I can recognize. I find my hands washed by the
blood of a savior, bearing the weight He looks my square in the eyes. I can see the heart. I'm breaking
now. What good is this? What good is all of your worship, though you've raised your hands up high?
You've knelt before the throne an arrogant people, only to learn you're praising your lies. I can see His
heart. You can't yourself. I'll make you drown. I'll make you scream. I'll make you do whatever I can say.
Is this just a dry season or does agnosticism plague us all? We worship God on Sundays, using the
weekdays for the fall. The church's budget overflows while poverty persists. How can the heart of Jesus
and the prideful coexist?
The creases of my bible aren't as worn as they once were. The pages of my journal haven't held a written
word. My spirit scans the shallows, though intended for the deep. How can I find myself in Heaven
when Hell is where I'll sleep? I gave myself up