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| We're playing with Russian Circles.
Now to acquire a drummer.
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| If ever I am married I would hope it'd be to You.
For all the others pale in both brilliance and in hue.
When placed against Your lovely frame and balanced on the scale,
You alone are the test by which all others fail.
The goodness of Your hand brings a Girl into a place,
Where every moment earns Her trust and merits no disgrace.
The patience of Your heart compels return of such an act.
The gentleness You display drives my storms back.
Your faithfulness is binding as that none should want to flee.
Your love, it is a flame that bears hearts to passions edge.
Your kindness is a fragrance, making burdened lift their heads,
Your joy it is the music drawing sleepers from their beds.
There is no resistance to such a Lovers arms.
Such a great assurance keeps a treasured Girl from harm.
With bodies bound by fealty and souls by truthful care,
There is no want of separation, no distance could She bear.
The depth and width of selfless love consumes Her every breath,
And by such adoration, Her longings all are met.
In Your vast eternity She will rejoice in rest.
Ephesians 5:25-26 Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her 26to make her holy, cleansing her by the washing with water through the word,
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| I looked down at the tiny Communion cup in my hand. I could see there, through the plastic and the deep burgundy liquid, my fingerprints. His blood on my hands. The blood that made them clean.
"This is rescue, this is absolution, this is mercy, this is our redemption."
- My Epic | | |
| The things I say drip from my lips, liquid, smooth, irresistibly sweet. They find the ears of listeners and their idealism is moreover accepted without a qualm, because it is indeed, benevolent, and easy to imagine. Yet, the reality of the fact is that selflessness is against the code of human self-worth. It involves being the joyful doormat and the unnoticed hands and feet. It involves fearlessness concerning your pride, maintaining and ever-constant gaze on He who is beyond yourself, expending your time, resources, and yes, your life, for the sake of others. That is hard. That place, the one of sacrifice and idealistic love, is where we become the pharisee or the saint. | | |
| Math homework puts me in a foul mood. I really don't want to solve for x anymore. I've just not been feeling "it" lately. Whatever "it" is. I have always been under the impression that "it" is a reference to that fine, elusive substance that suddenly makes the moment you find yourself in extremely pleasant/wonderful/memorable. It is "it". A vague and subjective term, evidently, that I seem to have misplaced among exponents and radicals. Math is not "it" for me. I am sincerely a right-brain failure. My creative anarchist wrecks my notes, it revolts, it overcompensates, and overpowers all mathematical efforts. I think it's a brute. | | |
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