We looked to each other, then back to the streets. They were empty. No silhouettes of people were seen through the windows. No smoke rose up from the high chimneys. The streets were dead and soundless.

“They are afraid,” I whispered.

“They must be awake, for the death-stroke will come in the night.”

alive
or at least not dead
I am not sure
I live just yet.

captured
my heart securely caught
can barely breath
the lesson has been taught

manipulator
twisted round your fingers
release me!
yet still somehow I linger

addicted
fastened by your lies
barely allowed to think freely
yet when I'm with you I can fly

escaping
ripping painfully loose
I may walk alone
but I'll never recover from you

{Lately martyrdom has been on my mind. Stay tuned on my blog to find out why. But then I caught a stomach bug and was quite miserable. The next day I listened to a sermon by Eric Ludy called "Extraordinary Courage" ... which really stepped on my toes. My thoughts, Mr. Ludy's, and some of Richard Baxter's are included in this prayer}

‘Tis so easy to romanticize
The notion of martyrdom.
The longing inside with the prayer
"Thy kingdom come.”

‘Tis so noble to want to die
For His glorious name,
Yet when the pain comes

Tighearnán couldn't understand it. The creature had only bitten him, and the wound was shallow. But as they struggled the last half-mile up the slope to home, Tighearnán was feeling more and more ill. Though it was a warm day, the breeze felt like ice where it touched Tighearnán's skin. The bite was bandaged tightly in a strip of wool torn from his own tunic, but it refused to stop bleeding and throbbed agonizingly with every step forward.

Fear
Telling you to run
Fear
Impossible to shun
Fear
Never letting you try
Fear
Won't tell you the reason why

Fear
It's there, so laugh at it
Fearless

Fear
Keep going in spite of it
Fearless

Fear
Countered with faith...

You are
Fearless.

To live is not just to exist.
It's so much more in-depth than that, so much more daring, so much more dangerous.
To live is to take a risk, a great and holy risk. And what do we risk?
Our lives.

In the small dark village of Yakathaim
Near the edge of blackness vale
I spied a bronzen man who came
O’re the rocky mountain trail

His boots were cov’ed in gritty dust
His hands were worn and rough
His sword was red with years of rust
And His voice was thick and gruff

“Ho, thou long worn traveling-man,”
I hailed him on the road,
“Come hence, I’ll give thee a hand,
And rest awhile thy load.”