FairWriter

He is not contained by my words, not formed by my hands, not dependent on my strength, not shaken by my failure, not far off. He sits at the right hand of God, yet seeks residence within me.

Here I am, releasing the tension of my firm grip. I leave my little, lifeless deities in jealous hands, the creative hands that made me. My ache belongs on the altar along with these sacrifices. Why do I weep when I lie down my treasures and crowns? Take them! I don’t want such to selfishly return. These craved idols are dead, worthless, and my enemies. Stubborn child, you cannot end these riches with this violent fire while you embrace them with your rebellious heart. Burn the fragments that remain, make them ash… less than ash, make them a barren womb.