The Threshing Floor of Clay(A CHRONICLE OF FLESH TO SPIRIT)

The Threshing Floor of Clay

The dust of this country is a heavy thing.
 It clings to the hem, it settles in the bone,
 A weight of dying where the shadows cling,
 And every mortal heartbeat cries alone.
 For we have walked the markets of the beast,
 Where Babylon sells souls for silver coin, 
And sat as beggars at a hollow feast, 
Feeding the restless hunger of the loin.

The flesh is a fierce warden, 
loud and blind, Demanding worship for its passing breath,
A subtle rope of vanity designed To bind the living to the law of death.
 We feel the pull, the warfare in the veins, 
The ancient rot that whispers of despair
 But look! Above the smoke of burning plains, 
A quiet Glory breathes upon the air.

The Breaking of the Veil

It is not a dream of some far-off, distant sky, 
But blood and marrow made completely whole. 
The God who pitched His tent to watch us die Has breathed His very nature in the soul.
 He does not merely pity our decay,
 Or mend the tattered garments that we wore;
 He tears the shroud of mortality away,
 And flings a wider, deeper, living door.

The inheritance is not a crown of gold,
 Nor streets of glass where lonely spirits tread. 
It is the Life that never can grow old, 
The Breath of God that wakes the sleeping dead. 
To share His being! To partake His name! 
To find our pulse within the Great I AM! 
A roaring fire, a holy, consuming flame, 
The bride made ready for the bleeding Lamb.

The Morning Star Rises

So let the kingdoms of this world collapse, 
Let Babylon go down into the sea. 
Let time devour all its fading maps,
 For we are anchored in Eternity.
 The war is fierce, the corruption presses nigh,
 But oh, the Hope that anchors in the veil! 
The mortal flesh will stumble and will die,
 But God’s own Life within us cannot fail.

We are His daughters; we are His chosen sons. 
The ancient night is giving way to dawn.
 The river of His life already runs 
The corruption ceases.
 The Eternal has begun.