He stinketh... John 11:39

some nights I try to bury my deadness
I wander aimlessly
shrouded in malaise
a death colored haze
like a dead man walking
dreadfully, desperately
yearning for breath
but the stench of my spirit
secretly stalking my tomorrow
like a thief, like a dirge
a stone covered hole
the blackest night.
absent of light
and You speak to the bones
rise up!
buried dreams
rise up!
broken hopes
rise up!
lost, rogue child of God.
rise up!
joint to joint
marrow of life’s scattered feast.
O, rattle on life!
the Master Artisan of grace
owns every heartbeat
tendon and sinew of joy
every first born epiphany
every ion of truth
sweet and ever new