A Holy God enters the cursed,
The King abandons His throne.
The Creator becomes the created,
Elohim with flesh and bone. (more…)
poetry
Three Clocks
On a shelf in my soul sits a wooden hourglass,Where sands no longer run.The top bell is empty; the bottom is still,Reminding me of His work that’s been done.Resting, quiet, and peaceful,This timepiece no longer enslaves.The war is over, and victory is wonThrough an empty cross and grave.