I miss you.

All those lost souls,

Fallen down those dirty rabbit holes,

Endless tangled tunnels of lost

loves, long-predicted failures.

Don't say I didn't try

to warn you with my cries.

You called them crocodile tears.

And now my tears have their revenge,

as they slowly fill the rabbit holes

and drown the lost souls

of all the things I loved and lost.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

I saw the signs, perceived the

patterns: when I was broken

by everyone I tried to love.

Love broke me and left me

waiting for a sign. But the only

signs I see are the signs

that you're leaving me.

Did I say I miss you?

Would you even hear me

if I did?

Now I'm drowning, voice

silenced in my own endless tunnel.

Miles of chains and delicate lace

Tie my heart in knots

and my hands behind my back.

I want to save you

from the burdens

you try to bear, chains you try

to wear, but my own heart

is too heavy with regret

to hold your hand tonight.

'If only's drop in my

mind like rather large

rocks in a flimsy cloth

bag, that never should have carried

stones. Broken bones cannot

stand on their own. But
I cannot save you this time.

Once I loved, and love conquers all.

Tonight there are only shadows,

whispers and shadows. Pain,

familiar friend, points to love

lost; I paid the cost,

a price too high to think

of love again. Pain,

that too familiar friend,

let's pretend we aren't

living in the shadows of what might

have been.

Never again

can I doubt His love for me,

can I see the cross without

fear and trembling and joy.

Never again

can I think of my own

suffering as worth anything

when compared to His

incomparable pain.

Never again

can I fail to understand

the solemn gravity

of my sin that nailed Him there.

Never again

can I praise the cross

and not mean it,

claim His blood as my ransom

and not believe it

can I live under condemnation.

For He has paid it all.

All to Him I owe.

Sin had left a crimson stain

He washed it white as snow.

The dripping blood our only drink,

The bloody flesh our only food:

In spite of which we like to think

That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood-
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.

a bride

Curling my hair in an empty house

The cream-and-lace dress hangs

over a chair, waiting to be worn,

a little bit torn but still beautiful,

a little bit broken but still loveable.

Softly the violins sing, a serenade

or a lament? Walking down the aisle,

walking to new life as a bride,

or the bride of Christ. Is this new life

or a death? I don't know which

I'm pretending to be. Alone I pretend

to be a bride, but whose? Why

would they leave the bride alone

to curl her own hair, sob in that chair

where the wedding-death dress hangs?

The virgin bride prepares to lie

in her coffin, a slow walk down the aisle,

her last walk from the earth to her grave

in a worn-out wedding dress.

Keep on.

Don't lose heart.

Be confident of this: He who began a good work in you

will carry it on to completion.

Strive. Go forth.

Sanctified through fire

Satisfied desires.

I am worth more than I ever

dared dream.

"A white blank page, and a swelling rage. You did not think, when you sent me to the brink. You desired my attention, but denied my affection. So tell me now, where was my fault in loving you with my whole heart?"

-Mumford and Sons, White Blank Page