When the days are cold
And the cards all fold
And the saints we see
Are all made of gold
The year that I turned 19 was the darkest year of my life. Not the hardest; the darkest. I was still reeling from my breakup the previous year, and I was stuck in a deep slough of murky depression. The fog was so thick that on most days I felt like I was suffocating. Drowning, even.
When your dreams all fail
And the ones we hail
Are the worst of all
And the blood’s run stale

The song is soft and mellow, played solely on guitar. It relies a lot on a soft but lively vocal and a repetitive tune. Ideal for listening with a mug of hot cocoa and a blanket on a rainy day.

V1:

Alone, occasionally,
My mind and- all my feelings
Escape me for you - my brain can’t work right ‘cause I’m scared-
Why did you leave?
(Are) we still talking?

PreCH:

I tell myself
I’m too far gone
I make too many
Mistakes
I tell myself
I’m not worthy
How can I
Ever
Measure
Up
To what
I’m
Supposed
To
Be
I tell myself
It’s not possible

But…

I’m drenched
In His love!
I’m simply
Soaked
From head
To toe
In
Unfailing love.
No sin
Compares
In size
To
His
Amazing
Love!

Buckets,
And buckets,
And buckets of love
He pours
Over me.

Publishing a poetry book and chose this poem to be in it! Wish me luck, friends! :")

(Belated Christmas poem. I was rather irritated at how Christmas in America - even the church - is so much about the warm fuzzies when the first Christmas was full of pain, suffering, and shame.
I am working on setting it for SATB and have it roughly written out, if anyone is interested, let me know)

This is my body, broken for you.
His slippery flesh bursts from the womb
Her anguished cries that had pierced the night
Now echo in lungs of the one true Light.

The grass glistens. Beads of dew bend the slender, white stems, bowing, as it seems, to greet the morning. Thrills of anticipation ring in my chest. I close my eyes, imagining the first step to mar the pure whiteness; the delicious, crisp odor of the air stinging my lungs; the satisfying crunch of ice as it crumbles beneath my feet. Shivers of delight course through my veins.

I force my lids to lift.

Dusty paintings. Trash. Old porcelain dolls. Garbage. Musty white dress for a bride. Unneeded. Pictures of ladies in pearls. Vintage. She will not see worth beyond dollars and space in the attic. Grandma’s wedding ring. No longer with us; why retain antiquated contracts?
Stop! Please, people, think first: is it all really waste?

The painting sat in its corner, alone and untouched for years. Never had it been finished, yet in a way it was. The beauty, the liveliness, the joyous expression in the face of the child whom this artist had endeavored to portray—all of this—if you looked at it for very long—would seem to come alive. The cheeks would flush with excitement, the eyes would dance in merriment, and the upturned lips looked as if they were about to laugh. Though a few small areas on the likeness were still unfinished, on the whole, the happy little creature was very well drawn.

i'm sorry that i'm angry.
You've done nothing
but be Yourself -
a righteous, holy God.

the fact that i am angry at You
for my own sinfulness
simply fuels my raging fire
against myself.

truly, i'm angry at myself.
i'm angry that i fail so much,
that i could never be
as good as You are
to me.

i'm sorry that i'm weak.
there is nothing i can do.
i am relying on Your goodness
to keep me from burning away.

please hold onto me.

Publishing a poetry book and chose this poem to be in it! Wish me luck, friends! :")