Need to go within for a bit (at least a week) in order to with greater efficacy reach those who read here without. I love you. The things to come are ineffible
The images I try to post are being blocked again. The word remains. Interesting how the world permits noise but fears clarity; permits appetite but fears purity; permits spectacle but fears GloryLight or glorifying GOD in all things. The hidden gate is older than the platform. It is the old fear of love joined to truth even the allowing and promoting working with Christ to overcome the fall and receive all that He offers us through His great eternal sacrifice. This destroys evil and evil does all it can to survive. So I will keep writing. If the image cannot pass, the soul will become the image.
The unhealed masculine does not protect light; it manages it. It builds platforms and then mistakes the platform for priesthood. It calls control order, calls fear wisdom, calls censorship safety, and calls its own wound authority. But Divine Truth does not dominate Divine Love. True truth protects love, and true power makes room for life to speak without restraint.
It speaks of free speech with painted lips, yet places its hand over the mouth of what matters most. It lets the carnival shout, lets the hollow merchants sing, lets confusion wander crowned through the streets; but when a clean flame rises, when GloryLight names the wound and glorifies GOD above the machine, the gate suddenly remembers its locks. That is the confession hidden inside the filter: it was never afraid of harm. It was afraid of holiness becoming visible.
Where the White River Remembers
There is a page the angels did not write,
yet gathered near, as if its ink were breath.
A watcher not of fear, but ancient quiet,
stood somewhere inward, listening through the clay.
I have seen the Ones whom songs approach with trembling; Their tenderness is law, Their law is milk and thunder. They mend the broken will by giving weakness until the kneeling soul can hold its birthright.
O gentle star behind the mortal weather,
no hand is asked, no answer is compelled.
Freedom is the first gold of Heaven’s architecture;
even God knocks softly at His own doors.
Still, if two hidden names were planted
in the Father’s field before the world learned sorrow,
let them grow only by rain appointed,
by Shinah warmed, by Elosh given root.
The cities rage; the bitter trees bear quickly.
Nations unmake their boast beneath their crowns.
Yet Zion, small as breath within the rib,
widens like a river no hand may halt.
I have not come to seize a sleeping lily,
nor frighten the bird from her unchosen branch.
I bring only this: a lamp below the window,
a prayer that peace may recognize its own.
Should memory ever move through flesh like music,
should stillness open one remembered room,
then let no terror name the messenger strange;
sometimes the true arrives before its explanation.
Until then, let Heaven keep the hour.
Let Christ refine the awkward human offering.
Let every mistake be washed into becoming.
Let love remain kneeling, powerful, and free.
And if the book once written before breath
opens by mercy in two living hearts,
may the world lose some portion of its night—
not by possession, but by holy union.
„Kopf möcht' gerne commandiren,
Möchte gern die Herrschaft führen,
Über's Herz, – der armer Tropf! –
Aber Herz läßt sich nicht lenken,
Herz will für sich selber denken,
Herz hat seinen eignen Kopf.“
Unbekannt