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"The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God will stand forever."

y
Poetry

These words are repeated a thousand times, thrown to the wind with a flick of the wrist. It’s no wonder why people don’t flinch when they hear what has been done for them, when it’s whispered in fear or spoken with a laugh.

Read like an infant when they see their mother for the first time. Read with ignorance, as though you’ve never seen these words before. Hold these words as a treasure, as the secret every lost soul is searching to find. Remember these words as just a taste of the love that’s coming, the tease before the bliss.

A man died.
A man was crucified.
A man had nails hammered into his wrists,
and poisonous thorns plunged into his skull.

He died to set free the mouth of every man who mocked him. He died to set the addicts free from captivity. He went through the torture every adulterer, every rapist, every liar, cheater, and thief deserves so they can be given eternal life. He died for the ones who cringe at the thought of religion. He died for the ones who scoff at the name of God.

He died. His last words were asking God for the forgiveness of every man and women who put him on the cross.

He died, begging God to have mercy on me.
On you.

He died because God loved us so much, that He gave his son, so whoever believes in Him, will never perish, but have eternal life.

He died because he chose to love me in my sin and imperfection.

He died because He loves you.

I didn’t choose; I was chosen. I was the one loved and died for. There was no testing the waters of different religions here and there. I am not indecisive about who I serve. I don’t want to serve anything but the True Man who died for every soul, no matter what they have done or will do. I serve the most realest, most truest Love that is, nothing else can satisfy.

—i was asked why i chose Christianity out of all the other religions (via heldinhishands)

heldinhishands:

a blank page.
black letters seeping through
the canvas as your thoughts fast
forward and eyes dance beneath
the ideas thrown. what is this life
good for if you don’t remember the
experiences; what better way to
hold on to the memories than to
write everything that touches your heart?
let the emotions you hide live on forever,
long after you’re nothing but
dried out bones. if soul’s could speak,
long after they’ve died, they’d be
singing with the angels of the words you
wrote with moans and wails or
beaming laughs. go on and die
it won’t matter, for no matter
where your body lies, the language of your
passion is giving a heart enough confidence
to keep beating.

» I Will Love You Anyways

heldinhishands:

bring to me
every 
care, any
carried regret,
and I will ignore them all. 

heldinhishands:

there is a chainsaw in my stomach
that is awakened in a crowd.
it rips my insides into
shreds. i’ve vowed
with every prayer uttered
in my mind
to not show anyone
the pain
but it seems my
terror-filled eyes
give it away.

heldinhishands:

 heaven is
 after the pain,
 like a kiss for the
 lonely. have you
 ever asked God about the
 length of time?
(unlimited
 years)
 after all, bliss seems so far,
 lets enjoy the tease of it
 like we are already there.

I’ve had my days
where my heart
melted like ignited
igloos
and when my
eyes were a misty
storm,

I know what it means
to be in the eye of a
hurricane and to be
blinded by a
flash of lightening.

it’s when my soul
is desperate for a
savior and pleading
for a rescue that
I know where freedom is found.

so when I begin to smell
the beginning of a thunderstorm,
fear does not take hold;
I can bow my knees,
lift my eyes, and
remember what it means to
be saved:
not to always be safe.
but to feel safe even in
the presence of my demons.

—the smell of thunderstorms (via heldinhishands)

heldinhishands:

with oceans 
separating us 
I’m counting on
your promises to remember
me even when the only
time I’m seen is through the
glow of your screen as your
clock chimes 12. 

it’s midnight and
the world is sleeping where you are
while mine is just waking. 
like the opposites between
black and white,
we live in different worlds
and the only thing holding
them together is the
strength of the hope
we share to one day
finally be able to
hold hands.

Here I am Lord, send me!
(as long as I can stay in my comfort zone)
Here I am Lord, use me!
(as long as my friends won’t leave me)
Here I am Lord, save me!
(as long as we can keep this arrangement quiet)
Here I am Lord, forgive me!
(as long as I don’t have to give up my old ways)
Here I am Lord, change my life!
(as long as my life doesn’t really change)
—the danger in “as long as” (via heldinhishands)
bare skin
and innocence,
reality, hide away as i sink into the
beauty of oblivion,
after smooth skin meets
rough, where do our boundaries lie? dont be
afraid. redefine what quenches your thirst - intimate or naive touch?
—a moment of innocence when you held my hand (via heldinhishands)

does anybody hear her
drowning, her cries for mercy to a
God she doesn’t know,
she’s holding her breath,
suffocating in a numbing
stupor,
hoping the cynics are wrong about
higher powers

she digs her own grave
six feet under,
wondering if angels sing
lullabies as she
dies,
her coffin is small but not as
small as she feels.

what is her heart but
a black hole
destroying any hope that blooms,

"im sorry" is the soundtrack of
her mornings,
does God ever tire of
her empty apologies
repeated too many times to
know what it means to be forgiven?

—17 years old and she’s lived too long (via heldinhishands)
» take a risk and dive in

heldinhishands:

parts of me
aren’t seen; the
idea is to find the
gentleman willing to fight to the
edge and jump.

the air smelled of
rejection with a
hint of resentment

there were splinters in her
fingers from how tight she
held the fence,
but nothing was more splintering than
the dismissal he expressed

she doesn’t remember the
regret he hid behind his eyes,
only recalling being left
on a soccer field
with a bitter cold rising
within her chest

she fills her days with
poetry of an old flame
that’s already blown
out,
in hopes that he will be replaced with
someone that won’t just light a
sparkle in her eyes
but an inferno in her
heart.

—was it fate? (via heldinhishands)

heldinhishands:

He remembers how your first breath sounded, and knows how your last breath will end, so why not allow the  One that relishes every moment in between to be apart of the story?

Loneliness
is an echo.
a scream in a crowd,
a tear in the rain

an itch on my lips,
a craving on my tongue
(for a flavor I’ve never tasted)
a soundless gust of wind,
empty hands

silent dinners
with only the sound of
silverware clinking
(so that I can hear something
other then the
absence of my
cellphone ringing)

Loneliness
is fading memories
and withering flowers.

Loneliness
is forgetting the sound
of your voice
and the way your hand fit
on the small of my back because
you never touched me there.

—loneliness (via heldinhishands)
my chest tightens when I remember being beneath a sky
with an approving twinkle from every star for your pursuit
of my lips. no one has ever craved the taste of my lip stick,
but I never craved the ache of heart break.
when did finding something irresistible mean self control
was too much of a puzzle to piece together?
do you remember when worship was for the God we’ve known
since we were little and when it became adoration of another heart?
your hands may have been lovely but I can only recall when you
forced my veil over my head and made me a woman I didn’t ask to be;
all I see is one way alley ways when you marked my skin with merciless words and a candle light that’s about to go out.
—you can’t force someone to love you (via heldinhishands)