From The Desk of David

Count past ten, the math breaks, sins stack infinite,
ledger dripping red ink, every digit intimate.
Not prodigal, but still estranged in my skin,
The Father charts the distance like He’s mapping out my sin.

No mirror required—I’ve stared at the ruin:
envy with a smirk, pride humming its tune.
David pre-resurrection, wrapped tight in regret,
Martha in the doorway—“lay him down, not yet.”

Let the obits read hollow, let the choir croon slow,
this Paris ain’t a kiss, it’s a mask at the show.
Altars staged like theatres, bright lights for applause,
they monetize the covenant, counterfeit the cross.

Yet the Blood
moves from summits to shadows, from peak to pit,
higher than I’ve climbed, lower than I’ve slipped.
Bones in a valley—what choir could rattle them?
Stones in their hands—but His voice unshackling.

The stone rolls—silent, but the earth testifies,
witnesses grin while a soul resurrects inside.
Like Gideon with fleece damp, I whisper for proof,
but mercy answers louder than my skeptical truth.

Freedom defined:
free from venom disguised with a hymn,
free from the blemish baked deep in the skin,
free from the stain no ritual could rinse.

When does Grace sign the line? At confession’s refrain?
Or the instant His Name interrupts my shame?
It is finished. The wage long repaid.
He shattered its jaw with the nail in His hand.

Now every demon keeps receipts of their loss,
and the cross still bleeds louder than applause.
Tell the dirt: it can’t keep what the Blood has claimed.
Tell the pit: it’s a pulpit when He calls my name.
Hell broke its teeth on the stone it rolled tight.