Thoughts, Prayers & Art

Originally published: April 17,2025

They hoard thunder
in their clenched fists,
calling it sovereignty,
as if sound alone could summon eternity.
They beat drums of war
to drown the silence of their hollow souls,
marching in circles
around altars built of fear.

But no tyrant sleeps soundly.
They are dreamless men,
haunted not by ghosts—
but by the absence of God.

See how they cling
to perishable crowns,
golden circlets forged
from stolen breath and scorched earth.
See how they stack stones into palaces,
while their hearts remain uninhabitable,
windows shuttered against grace.

They do not know
that eternity cannot be seized
only surrendered to.
So they ransack the temporal:
soil, skin, syllables
as if divinity could be bound
by border or blade.

Their violence is a tantrum
against the infinite,
a child kicking at the tide
because the sea will not obey.

But you, beloved,
whose soul leans into resurrection—
you carry the weightless crown.
You walk the narrow road
that no army can patrol,
where the meek inherit,
and the peacemakers prevail.

For Christ did not conquer by sword,
but by scar.
His power was not in taking breath,
but in giving it.
And in His pierced hands
we find our truest shelter—
where no dictator’s decree can reach.

Let them build their empires of sand.
The tide is coming.