Holding this mic, it is easy to lose myself in the diatribe of whittling words, diminishing, shaping, dividing all that I see. The fear that leads such action has born allegiance to acrimony, the spoil of men who would be king but lack to charm, power or presence. What man shapes my thinking, well none but the God above? So in my actions measure, treasure and pleasure ought find itself ample to reflect the Glory that such relationship brings to the words of man. Which man am I to be driven by the spiritual things of mercy and grace that this pen within my grasp should record not insecurity but the tremendous fealty, admiration and defensive nature within my chest for all men?

This is not time for a spirit of conquest in hate. By any measure, that man or woman is easily found and purchased for the price of allowing them mantle from which to preach that dividing rhetoric. What is left in the wake of such mannerisms but destructive evidence of said nature? What is built upon the foundations lain? What pleasant odor emanates from the gardens of lilac they’ve planted in the fields of man’s sustainable provision? If I were such a man to talk you down from the perches you’ve erected, it would be only to consume you in the masterful mannerism of making you my prey. Which man believes in kill or be killed, let that man stand before God’s throne on that great day and give recount of his displeasure and animalistic rage. Which man stands and looks at his own position within the evolved component that man claims to have become and deems himself worthy of determining the end of any specie? No, there are greater hands at work that the survival of the fittest mentality displayed so handsomely for the cover of odd magazine. For in such there is no loving control guiding forgiveness of youth and apprehensive upbringing.

And if man be born or become by time or the times in which he discovers himself risen, what then do these time’s demand? Is this time for reasoned cruelty. Certainly men are teetering upon the brink of their own random and easily prompted destruction. Is it the call of man within this timeline to encourage such timely assistance? Is there division by which there is realistic determination of judgment regarding one’s own position in cast and culture to separate you from such masse? Has life’s provision better equipped you to face the time’s approaching questions? Is that the question of our time? Who shall be left to face the undetermined future and who should be helped to early grave? Who wants part of such argument for or against? And is that the defining componentry of man’s worth or wisdom is how to be in or out of this divisive determination? Do we even now see such men describing their internal mercy as being that which desires them to assist the less capable to find expiration as if such idea finds any equation with the merciful? Are the noblest few to look upon the less fortunate with plentiful disregard, believing themselves the appropriators of worthiness?

Am I that man who quests to fight the disrighteous dream of appropriating men? Does their cruelty carry such disappeal that it rubs askance my reason or sensibility? Do I find it wretched that men could make decision in viewing themselves greater or lesser than any man created by God’s Mighty Choice? No this mic, this moment is not meant for destruction or diminution but for regard of greater things than man. This is the time that calls for all to face our impermanence together. If mortality be our shared objective then what may be made of it collectively that each cannot individually resolve? Are we meat for others founding, the fodder or kindling for their approbation or enriching regard? Do I care what befalls other men, such that I take an active role in promoting the common good of all? Or shall they find no friend in me, seeking only my own devices, my own quest for a hand up to be found only in the groups of aspiration?

Is this an experiment in giving people the opportunity and watching them arise to the task with that appropriate and necessary elevation? Or is this a membership given only to the worthy, kept away from the undeserving for they’ve not pigment, speech or adequate blood of entry? Do the lowly get any decision in our worldly regard or simply by the provision of their poverty is their vote made nil? Yes, the times call for these questions answered, but none would ask for it defines their filthy insides. What pigment is necessary for inclusion well it most certainly should not be the festering blackness within the heart of the wicked who propose the demise of God’s favored. Am I that man to believe myself adequate in stature or station to determine before God which of His Created and beloved men or women are inadequate by measure? Oh, pray don’t let your argument dispose to contestation with the immortal Hand of God? I would have you reason in the spiritualist avenue of men’s apprehension, not be cut to quick by God’s rapier Word. For what does God know of our human folly or madness? What does Sovereignty share with those carrying the weight of the impoverished? That same argument, what has God to do with the likes of men?

Provision no less. The gift of Life no more. For which of us adores a certain child, niece or nephew who has not been given each by the hand of God’s benevolence? Did you create your wife? Did you give her affluence, perhaps? Did you give her worthy blood or bold station from whence to preach the inadequacy of common man? Is her intelligence quotient and her academic upbringing the products of your anticipation or rather those random and loving gifts given by the Hand of God? What then are your own treasures but blessings of Almighty? Did you not pray for the outcome of each battle, contest or mission? From whom did you expect good fortune? Oh, now I see the problem of your ill reasoned approach in lacking love for men of common nature. You prayed to those who would de-throne Almighty God, seeking stature here as opposed to hereafter. That explains the blackened heart. You would have me call you god that you might be the one worthy of making man’s decision for him. Well, God Almighty, knows your breast and your quest to dispense shame upon those whom He bestows loving grace and mercy. He is alive and has shared in our pain of mortality, having come lived and died upon the Cross that we might be set free from the prison your liege would have us enter. This man knows from where each of His blessings flow. If turning astray that provision is requirement for inclusion in your idea of immortality, then frankly it shall by nature be short lived for it lack within its planning a misconception. That misaligned thinking that somehow there is immortality outside the hand of God. Who pray tell has fed such folly?

Which man are you or perhaps am I? What man does this time call upon you to become? Are you by nature the destroyer, seeing it easy to bring ruin to all in your sphere? Are you frightened beyond performance, determining a small measure of comfort within your shell or avatar? Are you willing without direction having never been tested, taught or measured? Are you the Lord of all you’ve taken, seeing promise in the depopulation of your planet by lesser men? Do you feel something is owed you only for the line’s standing? Which man has the time chosen that you should become? Oh, you say that you are not simply sculpture that the clock has created and that you will act within your own direction regardless of era or circumstance? Bravo, I say, though I think you’ll find out somewhere along the road that there is a certain inescapable reality of the moment that will greet you. Are you the hero of this story or perhaps of someone else’s version? What are you building or taking away? What are you fighting, folding or avoiding in this ju jitsu match of life in America’s mad moment? What is your fellow man to you. Brother, nuisance, challenge, Friend or food for your conquests?

The joy of this moment is that if you fail to decide those definitions and decisions will certainly be self-proclaimed absent your investment or control. For these are times that define men not vise versa. Which man do you say that you will be? For we are becoming someone. Who is it that you want to be and what impact does God’s opinion have upon that outcome?

How complex is a child’s Love for their parent or Mother for that same child? Infinitely simple yet arguably more profound and a subject upon which more novels have been written than the atom itself. How simple is truth, a light switch that simply is or isn’t? How then realistically would those adverse to truth, struggle to conceal its simplicity within the shroud of complex jargon or academic eloquence? How then complex would their explanations become when asked that simple question, on/off, light/dark, true or false?

We fight for simple rights endowed by a Creator that we have duly expressed in an existence that is painfully and dynamically obvious by the Creation that surrounds each of us. We pursue happiness immediately designating an individual adventure seeking the things in one’s own desirous heart. Simple yet how much deeper and precise the psychological explanation of that simple journey designed to make something easily understood into a miasma of words, concepts and legalize.

Each of us needs food, water and protection from the elements to survive. Again the simplest understanding of something that could take centuries to explain in scientific jargon, equations and historical context. Do we need someone to explain to us each time we thirst how the water in infused into our cells and utilized by that cell to maintain a myriad of functions for which the water is essential? Do we need to know exactly how the plants utilize the water when they are watered in order to know that the water is a major element of why it will satisfy our hunger and feed our bones and flesh? Do we need to know the Hydrogen Oxygen bond within the molecule to be refreshed and have our thirst sated while drinking.

Who then would benefit from a consistent attempt to complexify the order of these simple things within each of our lives? Perhaps those looking for justification for actions that are unarguably wrong from first focus but when looked upon with the complex interaction of rare events somehow plausibly appear right? Wait isn’t truth and falsity one of those simple comparisons, easy enough to determine without deduction or induction? Yes, that is the exact point to the argument and the battle waging before us in humanity for the simplicity and the complexity of things. Those who do not wish to accept the watch/watch maker relationship must develop complex theories without end to explain away their desire to avoid the rules of the Watch Maker.

We know that this world is going the wrong direction. Each of us acknowledges that fact, yet having the same conversation with someone of a complex understanding and deep knowledge of ethical relativism the in-congruence of a world prone toward chaos is some how a good thing. Through Anarchy’s chaotic penchant they revel in the elusive absence of ministering principles the idea that all their pent up desires may roam free without accountability’s embrace. Their Scientist’s Preach Entropy as if they can measure the winding down of the universe and somehow encounter God in that factoring. Yet, even as they see all things winding down they hope not or prepare not for the calamity of unmaking, but rather for some Golden hour of their rebirth within the power of starts and night.  The foster; transhumanism, evolutionary humanism, genomics, augmentation of human organs, limbs and output, lift elongation through artificial intervention, freezing, mummification, ritualistic spiritualization, psyche-life force upload, all clearly complex methods of prolonging the simply end to a mortal life that faces all of us.

It is wrong to take sexual advantage of a child. You can argue into next century that some are more mature, ancient cultures cherished this, their life force coupled with yours produces and energy achievable by other means. These are all bold faced calculated attempts to complexify the simple. I am sorry that you do not believe in an after life and that this life to you is the end of your existence and frankly the end to any of your worldly pleasure pursuits. You may not prolong it through evil or complex attempts to reverse or circumvent God’s mechanisms of control over His Creation. I know that you desperately must find another way around the fact that we all die and face our Maker. I get it you do not in any form want to be in front of a Maker you denied and did everything to anger or disobey, but those are the simple facts about this life. There is one way of escaping this facade of complexity you are chasing and that is to repent of your sin, cry out to God for forgiveness and surrender your hand and your heart to the eternal life He has promised all who accept that merciful offer.

It is simple. It has never been hard to gather, grasp or comprehend, yet even now I see in your eyes it escapes you. I am sorry that you have to make the world a complex and difficult journey. There are other answers that do not require alternate reality to comprehend it all as it really is. I pray for you that you see the simple truth that sits before you, In Jesus’ Precious Name.

Who needs mercy, you or is it always reserved for me? Does God in His infinite understanding observe this pitiful man and find all of His concentration captured by the Will to see me drawn to righteousness by repeated ill-deserved mercy and grace? Have I slumbered so in the explanation of all that is Holy and Pure that He must reserve extra daylight hours to my instruction, that someday I might be found an exception to His Wrath? Do my never ending prayers evoke God’s Direct counsel, establishing through intervention in this doubtful, perhaps impossible task, that there is hope for this dying world?

When, if ever have I passed by my own reflection in the shallow pool, to look upon the worlds’ need? What grace have I if I alone am grace with it’s mercy? Seven and half Billion People and the clock begins and ends with my whimpers and cries for solace? I think not said that man who tired of his own requests for mercy to the point where listening to any of the other billions would be a greater blessing that personally bestowed intervention. What must begets my pity? What harm arouse ire? What daylight dreams pass from tranquility to material and demand I stand with sword in hand and Spirit in Mouth fighting for the Lives of Others?

The Muse in Mercy’s reflection is truly knowing who God is, was and is to become and continue becoming beyond the edge of storm and tomorrow? He ponders their surety. He master’s their patience set against a world that He developed specifically that it might thrash them beyond capacity for their withstanding. He is their inspiration, their quest for mercy as He hands them at birth the challenge durable to destroy each of them without hope, a hope that they alone find in Him alone. He is their muse to mercy. That point where they realize their worth lacking, crying out to the impossible, the intervention of an unseen hand of faithful resolves so ominous that each of the billion and one half awaits it, can find no peace without it. Who then demands mercy, Him? Who then requires it none and who of us needs it, every thing that has breathed His Breath of Life?

Asking is receiving, needing is not requiring, but wanting, passionately wanting with guile, and hope and humble acquiescence, the Breath that restores mortal conquest and breeds the seeds of immortality. Where am I on this ladder of the deserving? Why the very first wrung, below sheep and artist and babe left to cry in darkness, for that is the way of a shepherd to stand the night in honor as pledged shield while God awaits their heart. He stood for me and continues to sleep across the open gap while I am wandering often aimless in the short grass of my contemplation. For mercy is not found but finds us where we are, exactly where we are not where we’ve tried to be, believed to be or told others and ourselves that we wish to be. It is the moment, it is the starvation of belly’s call, the blood ebbing from the wound needed attention the lost breath in lung as the last tree branch knocks it from our lungs, falling lifeless to the ground.

There are no requirements for mercy yet all receive some manner of its touch, for this is the character of God, which all that are loved are given. Do we ask for fear of no answer? Do we pray for thoughts of self reliance? Do we gather never having known winter’s bite? What then cries mercy fowl? Who then denies its sovereign hand beneath the falling visage? Shall it cradle my cries, why yes? But alas Lord let me lie in faith knowing, certain, sure of thy mercy. Grace give it to them who have grand need that pulls tear from my eyes even now in the midst of my displeasure. For you have loved me enough to see just how much you are in love with all of them.

Jesus, My King, My Salvation, My Redemption, faith and cure. Amen.

Did you wait for Him to whisper? Did you get tired upon the waiting or fed up with the call that was offered? How long does it say in the Word that each of us is to wait upon God? Just curious because it appears that even if it were a short while we all believe it eternity’s length.

What does walking blameless, in purity, in keen understanding of God’s Will and Word look like? What is deliverance? Is it my pleasant daydream resolution designed in my own head yet thrown upon the heaven’s to respond to my command for salvation? If I became betrothed to someone that I truly trusted who said that I am to wait until she returns would I at some point throw in the towel and forget to believe, forget to honor that promise, forget that she was my intended?

The Life is quizzical at best and down right circuitously frustrating at worst. Our emotions pull toward a range of resolutions delivered by drives and internal passions of a compromisingly temporary and fickle nature, yet most resolution to grand problems reside in the dusty shelves of tempered attitude and patient endurance. What is born at the conflict of this nature and learned attendance?

I am not going to leave this life until He allows it. My purpose lay within this life that He allowed. My talents give me access to solve a certain level of problems with perspective and acuity within a range of His allowance. My assets give me access to the benefits and provisions that He has allowed me that I be allowed to give or combine with others that we might do greater than our individual allowance. There is air because I have been allowed to have lungs and a cardio-pulmonary system capable of extracting the elements from the air and perfectly placing them with my cells to travel to my extremities and back again. But within that which has been allowed I am graced with the responsibility of making decision of tremendous gravity, size and difficulty simply for His review of my free will actions.

I am not perplexed rather honored to be confused about something so complex even the angels call it mystery. I am challenged of course by the actions I am apparently expected to take when I see nothing in my honor, talent or adequacy indicating that I could ever rise to the level of proficiency to evoke such action or act as catalyst to such change. These are the days of my presence leading up to the eons of my departure to be present somewhere else for untold purposes. Being with the Lord in Spirit, Comfort and Counsel even for moments in this lifetime makes it painfully evident that there is no other place for me but for that wonderful eternity spent with Him and You.

Gravel, too large to fit between my toes but slowing me significantly as I meander down the dirt road in flip flops one size too big. Lost on the tip of a memory that I couldn’t place or couldn’t drag from the depths of my empty head. Pleasant smells and sounds that made the butterflies comfortable as they floated, riding the heated waves of summer rising from the misty river. Hands in my pockets too small for all the fingers, hanging on the nearest belt loop, dreaming of a time, a time. Swirling water, the sound pushing against the boundaries of mind, recalling a shadow standing in the middle of the path beckoning me come home.

A song on my tongue laughing with the sparrows of summer preaching peaceful bug hunting and murmurs of daydreams in grassy dawn. As history speaks the soldiers of yesteryear would cry of their loss, missing family, trudging through the muddy sludge pressing at all pace to get home. They cried as I did now, unwilling to let loose the simplest sound in alerting their friends to the crime of being human.  In silence I could see her pondering those momentary treasure gifted by God that make a man a family and a home the place of his perfection. This is the hallowed ground of mystery men, bygone age and forgotten intention best left forgotten by those without a quest for freedom and a hunger for victory.

This is not a place of unfortunate wandering, but the moments of quiet contemplation and realization that although outstanding, creation is not God. I am mesmerized for moments measuring the mental geometry of the flowers blasting forth to be captured in the eye of fortunate beholder. Some would deny themselves the splendor of God’s floral demonstration in glory, but for me this almost takes the cake. Though I use it as another cliche to describe something outside of my understanding. For a moment I must ask of your forgiveness for chastising you about the things that I despise in my own profile. It really bothers me because it is me on the face of a fellow follower.

I do not walk this path but run it for sweat, tramp it for regret or to forget and sometimes saunter it for relaxing committal to the me that I am meant to be. Listening to the waters threatening the shore and wrapping fluid lassos around anything that dares to enter its sanguine saturation, I am reminded of constancy and endurance. The water is patient because it is comfortable taking its time to do the work set before it and not leaving any pebble unpunished in fulfillment of its tasking. It does not hate the pebble merely befriends it for a time of refinement and travel downstream, much akin to colleagues. Why then do I resent the sending of your dripping or pounding fluidity and overwhelming intention within my own existence. You are simply, as water, sent for a particular purpose to which we may assign judgment in lack of understanding.

This path may not describe your relationship to the things of this world but it certainly does closely indicate my own. This path is my path and I assure you it will be thoroughly investigated, ventured and cataloged to memory for posterity. The things that have been buried or thrown down upon the wayside, have not be dropped or planted lightly but as seeds to a robust history along the path for which has directed me. It is my solace, my work, my journey and sometimes the only muse to any rhyme life may offer. I regale in its majestic resemblance to the king and delight in the visage of His predominance. This is His testimony that if there is a path, which this one is my own, then there is a journey, a destination and a distance over which I shall never be alone.

Spurious and furious moments determining my victim-hood. Banished to the willful disregard of Glory. Time spent nigh consumed reflecting upon a pool of tears, each numbered and categorized with the shameful story of my benefactor’s disregard. Ill advised, spending time wondering why me?, or perhaps shaded when I felt the need for sun, under the gun to produce when there was nothing left to muster. Demons dancing around my daydreams forcing me to pick the litter of my rubbish life. Lying in the sea of self doubt, pity and recrimination I turn to God asking rescue from a sunny little lagoon.

My triumphs, nothing grand but there has been deep love given and received. No wings, no fame, no glorious treasure but the world’s I conquered had nothing to do with empire. Feeble fiscal standing yet always able to shed a few pounds from the over indulgence from which I am yet to escape. The eyes of this child are filled with laughter and joy at the funniest little bug. No grand enemies, all forgiven, they seek my life yet can find no hateful outrage, so they pass me bye labeling me disinterested. I have been saved from sin and death and that alone was why I came, the rest is all gravy and loving neighbors who frankly deserve more love than I could ever offer.

What downhill story may I mention to bring reflection upon my palsied reticence? What weight of worlds’ squashing my madness cause your pity to ruin my adventure? What chains still bind those freed indeed? I am bound for Glory’s Hall, to spend supper with the King. I sing in words and phrases not uttered by the tented man but in whispers of horizons with colors yet invented. This is not the heavenly address for which I was intended. If this be a ride headed always toward home no matter the direction, then ride it I will with joy in my heart and a tune upon my lips. Something new, not born of a life well or poorly lived but of a promised venture to somewhere I have yet to understand.

This is as hard as I make it. Tragedy’s teeth cannot swallow the Spirit of man headed to Christ footstool. Pleased to even be seated inside the doorway that I might someday get a glimpse, yet He says I will look directly into the burning eyes. How can this world measure such a man? Finishing this is all that I’ve left to do, except of course if I am rewarded with tasking from the Almighty Father. And what greater joy may come to man than to be used along the way by the Will and Hand of God? There is something new in this heart of mine, not so much a thing as it is a missing doldrum, replaced by endless wind in a sail as wide as Mars. What songs shall be sponsored, what dreams achieved, what answers questioned. We have yet to see in the joy of that which is yet known.

May you be blessed today with a visit from Jesus Christ the King.

Seen or unseen, tested upon the aroma of the wind, I know that the world is greater than my sensory measure. If this day, this normalcy, this creation through which God is readily seen contains infinite expanse beyond my capacity to ascertain, how then may I extend that small imagination to the idea of Eternity?

The mind has not seen, nor does a man know the Mind of God. Am I to be steward of worlds yet known? Are we to discuss parallel universes and numerous strings of dimension when we can barely remember to pick up the milk on the way home or to do the laundry? Have we so easily relegated our lives to the limitations of boredom that we have completely overlooked the glory that surrounds us and have yet to test the zipper of the package of comprehension in the hereafter?

What is comprehension? What is apprehension? What is imagination? Why are no two imagination’s the same? How might we imagine God’s Imagination? Why have we been so restrained by God that we are such limited by the parameter of our imperfection? Or is that the case? May I know a distant star when the closest is at least one astronomical unit away? Certainly I may study and replicate this huge hydrogen engine, but to know it would consume me. How then is it possible that God left us with so much that is undetermined within our own realm, dimension, existence that we cannot even attempt understanding of what comes next?

Is that the nature of Glory. That in demonstration of our feeble attempt to comprehend the world around us we are left in awe and majesty of the future that God promises to each man who believes? What do you think of when you think of the next life? Have you been limited by man’s inability to paint the picture that God would have us understand? Have you asked for the mind of Christ through His indwelling Spirit that you understanding may expand beyond the limits of mortality and temporary dwellings? I don’t know what is coming next, but that is not okay for me, I am going to ask God to show me and believe that He will. In Jesus’ Mighty Name I pray for all of you this evening. Loving You until I die and beyond.

They dynamics drive, the passion becomes the reason answers and the voice it calls. Inside a dream you have to call your own name to take control of objects and situation. Repelling Australian, down the backside of memory’s slope demands a non passive comprehension and mastery of the steering controls within fear. Disregard for limits within this sphere tend to get you labeled, assigned to some serious counselor with a long chin analyzing you twice a week over top of those silly little glasses. It’s best to run and plead the fifth, rather than open that conversation.

Running with one strap over my right shoulder my floursheim’s keep one twenty on pavement that’s just this side of slippery. Skidding to a stop against the car door, throwing the bag on the roof, fling open the door and in one movement drop it on the seat and jump in feet first. Time, no time, where did the time go when I thought this life had turned into some measure of boredom’s pursuit. But they’ve found me and the next few day’s if all happens according to plan there will be no rest, no step, no breather and only concern for Time.

She saw me, I don’t know how but someone just flashed my picture on the screen in the lobby of the conference I’d been attending. No hiding, no camouflage no sudden attempt to conceal the obvious only realistic grasp of my heart beat to walk as quickly toward the nearest exit as composure allows. Spotted, screened, surveilled or tracked by facial recognition, none will know except those seeking my untimely demise. Leaving this space and the face I’ve worn for business I now become citizen G, weaving and bobbing against the crowd, following signs to metro, allowing me the exit to get as far across town as it will take me. Bugout awaits.

Backtracking to midnight, I recall anything that may give me leverage to gain a measure of control. The dream ended and its always the smells that indicate reality, as gas, and filth and cigarette smoke waft across the barrow.  Don’t know the name of this street but that’s okay they all lead East which is where I am going. Desperate, no, but filled with the calamitous inspiring rage of a man hunted by blown cover I conspire to make them pay. Smiling briefly and a brief uturn to determine if I’ve been followed. No one in sight, but I know they are out there, I’m just fortunately a little bit ahead of the curve. Let’s keep it that way, I turn up the pace and put a bit of distance between me and that which is not yet inevitable.

Dawn’s not far, best to use the night while I’ve got its benefits. Trained, untroubled, merciless and certain been there a thousand times before. Somehow this is different because this time its my own who revealed me and that has an unfamiliar sting that hits me right above the kidney. Can’t wait to return the knife that they thought would end their troubles. Miles away I make time against the coming dawn.

Set free from self invented or dominion encouraged prison. No longer mired in the fiery clay of my own deceit. Reaching down to rub the blistered and raw skin around my ankles where shackles had been I weep for a time, smile again then collapse to pleasant slumber. How long have I raged with demons pressing to come to surface and show themselves to the world of men through my faculties? How many times have I awoken the following morning begging God for intervention only to revisit my own vomit nightly? They don’t like me when I am this way, loving me for who I am when not entranced, yet I cannot sway the hand of my unbridled rage. This was the nightmare, now to the dream.

Set free to think in peaceful, accountable and hopeful terms. Using words selectively with control of this grand weaponry, my tongue, I encourage, build and edify, where previously each syllable sought destruction. What now that I am in charge of my own free will, making decisions within reason and God aligned discernment? Where do I go with this power, this fortitude and courage, no longer willing or capable of blaming the world and all in it for my losses or abominable circumstance? What is freedom and how should it be used? Shall I buy this and squander that on the way to over indulgence? Perhaps, but reason begs a mature approach. On to memory of a forgotten dream repressed in the nightmare of ages, my tumult. What was it that I remember as a child, rang repeatedly in my noggin, as if a whisper from Almighty God in the womb, the purpose of my sanctification? Oh, now I remember.

They rage, because they cannot break the bonds to midnight. In my prayers God bids me recall my own divination. What now that we have been set free to pursue the righteous things of God? Shall I go look upon my own visage in the mirror, reflecting upon need upon need, upon want, or lose the sight of self focus to concentrate on freeing captives without intervention shall remain in bondage, beyond hope or reason? They struggle, they rage, they wake in the mornings surrounded in their own desperate tears. You know it, I know it because we have done it, been there and understand the regret and self conviction upon which God’s enemy’s feed. We are refuse to them, garbage to throw lifeless at God’s Feet to somehow accuse Him of faulty Creation, when what He made was good. I cannot stand bye and see them wheelbarrow another human that I could have helped to dump them lifeless or sodden at God’s Throne. This is the war, God’s War, a War for the heart and soul of mankind, to save not to condemn. This is the purpose that Little Boy recalled, protect and Love them, He told me and for that I was designed.