Dusting

This blog continues to collect more and more dust. Its not that I haven’t tried writing. My draft box is at a record high holding titles like “Taking a Break from Oceans,” “Is It Really Soli Deo Gloria?” and “Believe Better Things.” Yet . . . I don’t really feel like I have anything to say that is worthwhile. I don’t even know how many of you even read this anymore, and that’s honestly just fine with me. When I blogged in high school, I wanted everyone to know exactly what I thought about everything. Now that I’m oh-so-much older and oh-so-much wiser (yes, that’s tongue in cheek) I feel like I need to make certain of what I’m saying. If it’s not crafted perfectly it’s not worth posting.

Life keeps moving. Two weeks from tomorrow we’ll be done with exams and starting summer break. I’ll haul all of my things back to the apartments and start another adventure with the traveling praise team. Oh – but first I’m going to Europe with concert choir.

I’ve got a lot of things that’ll happen in this next chapter, and I’m simultaneously incredibly excited and terrified for the things that are coming. It’s my goal to keep writing about these things, not even so much for my readers’ sake but also for mine. Writing helps me be a better thinker and therefore a better do-er. So, this is me brushing off the dust on this tiny little page. Here’s to new adventures and remembering to write them down.

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Easter Morning

Though the earth cried out for blood
Satisfied her hunger was
Billows calmed on raging seas
For the souls of men she craved
Sun and moon on balcony
Turned their head in disbelief
Their precious love would taste the sting
Disfigured and disdained

On Friday a thief
On Sunday a king
Laid down in grief
But woke with the keys
To hell on that day
First born of the slain
The man Jesus Christ laid
Death in his grave

So three days in darkness slept
The morning sun of righteousness
But rose to shame the throws of death
And overturn his rule
Now daughters and the sons of men
Would not pay their dues again
The debt of blood they owed was rent
When the day rolled anew

On Friday a thief
On Sunday a king
Laid down in grief
But woke with the keys
To hell on that day
First born of the slain
The man Jesus Christ laid
Death in his grave

He has cheated hell
And seated us above the fall
In desperate places he paid our wages
One time once and for all

On Friday a thief
On Sunday a king
Laid down in grief
But woke with the keys
To hell on that day
First born of the slain
The man Jesus Christ laid
Death in his grave