Choices are fragile, necessary things. Tantalizing, agonizing little things. Brimming with endless possibilities. Accoutrement laced anticipations. Funneling into careless cessations. The question is asked, “Which way should we go?” The question echoes, “Does anyone know?” Arrogance answers, “Just enjoy the show.” Ignorance answers, “There’s no way to know!” Malevolence answers, “Don’t rock the boat!” Yet, choices are tenacious little things. Creeping through our minds even while we sleep. Twisting and tunneling deep in our souls. Every action straddled with reactions. Consequences lurk beneath distractions. They ask, “Is day any different than night?” I believe that shadows prove the sunshine. My friend, the sun still burns with fervent light. The night knows it has but a little time. And choices we make determine that time.
Tag: Christian poetry
What Will Become of Us All? – A Poem
White picket lines of peaceful persuasion
Cannot undo the cost of invasion
Endless fine lines of baser perversions
Weakened strains of moral conversions
Flawlessly wielding falsified searches
What will become of us all?
Cold, calculating meaningless data
Hiding underneath the smiling strata
Clinging to less fortunate ideas
Laughing, dragging, while dreaming of sions
Intricate veins coursing with curses
What will become of us all?
Meanwhile, one white robed throng preaches the Writ
Tenaciously keeping holy flames lit
Falling valiant, bleeding from vicious slits
Ten thousand swords critically slashing hits
Battered, beleaguered saints climb past ashen fritz
What will become of us all?
One bright light pierces the eastern sky
A triumphant shout falls from mountain highest
One brilliant white horse gracefully flies
The armies of Heaven closely aligned
Every blood-stained voice shouts toward the sight
What will become of us all?
The Gates of Hell – A Poem
I’ll take you to the gates of Hell I’ll show you what’s there It’s a horrific, sadistic, gaudy affair With twisted metals and steep swirling stairs I’ll take you to the throne of Death I’ll show you the way It sits atop the fork of two great lakes One called disunion, the other disgrace I’ll take you to the bowels of Hades I’ll show you who’s there The liars, the lied-to, ordinary faces With haunted red eyes and bent bloody feet I’ll take you to the edge of Sorrow I’ll show you the pain The broken, intrepid, intricate traces Longing to find relief yet complacent I’ll take you to the verge of Salvation I’ll show you the plan The death, the water, the rush of language Choice determines the end destination
Relearning Love – A Poem
I’ve had to learn, Not every love comes with an expiration date, Not every heart comes filled with unrecognized rage, Not every kind word hides secrets full of hate, And fate does not control what God creates. If He is love then love is good regardless of the pain. Perhaps the good is better once the hurt has filled our veins. Maybe love is worth more than we can explain. God gave us hearts that break. And grace to put them back together again. I’m relearning love, and it’s better than it was Because love is more than fairy tales and pretty songs, beating hearts simple thoughts. It’s bigger than castles and kingdoms demons and dreamers roses and poems and old dusty speeches. It’s stronger than iron colder than frozen glass and burns like the summer sun. It’s laughter and tears, turmoil and fear. It’s incredibly happy and unbelievably sad. It’s anger and madness. It’s faithful and kind when things are bad. It’s tough in the struggle, a light in the dark. A whisper in the wind, a hand holding tight when the worst possible news steals your breath and holds it like a vice. Love forgets to remember and remembers to forgive when it does. That’s the paradox of love. It confronts and contends without controlling or pretending. It speaks up but never down. But most of all, it casts out fear. It just throws it out. It wrestles and fights and grabs it tight sometimes from morning to night until finally, perfect light. Suddenly, with flashes of godly light love shines so bright all traces of darkness vanish beneath its might. Finally, fear is forced back to Hell from whence it came.
Daemonium Avi (Narratio Carmine) – Demonic Bird (A Narrative Poem)
A Brief Introduction
Daemonium Avi is a narrative poem based on an actual event that took place in the parking lot of my church. Daemonium is the Latin word for demonic, and avi is the Latin word for bird. I believe the title accurately describes the subject of the poem. Demonic Bird seemed to carry more gravitas in Latin. Plus, what is poetry without a little dramatic flair? However, the contents of this poem are true, and no dramatization could adequately capture the intensity of the spiritual encounter. Hopefully, poetically sharing this moment will remind others that the supernatural invades the natural more often than we realize. And that a person filled with the Holy Ghost has authority over satanic fear tactics. Resistance in the name of Jesus will cause the enemy to flee (James 4:7).
The car door thudded a final thump Keys rattled and clanked against A coffee cup of metal and steam It wafted tantalizingly in the sun Arms and elbows full of daily chores I fumbled around opening the door When a blackbird perched nearby Lifted a guttural unearthly cry Startled, I turned to see this beast Could this blackbird really speak Yes, it stared angrily towards me You’ll never win it screamed and shrieked God doesn’t care, and your faith is too weak I swallowed a lump lodged in my throat How did this brute steal my hope This blackbird wasn’t a bird at all Something sinister was truly involved Suddenly I noticed it’s crooked wing Hanging as if lodged by a string The bird spoke again, but this time it sneaked One step, then two, nearer it creeped Blurred vision, my head spinning ‘round My voice thickened to master a sound I knew this fowl was not Heaven sent A single prick of light suddenly hit The warmth of courage filled me up From head to toe, I shivered and shook Words tumbled out from somewhere below In Jesus’ name, be gone, thou devilish crow
The Burden of Truth (A Poem)
Ep. 69 | Should Christians & Pastors Be Involved in Politics? with David Tipton (MS District UPCI Superintendent), Pumpkin Oreos Good-Gross-Great with the Brocks, Sister Rachel Cole & French Fam – Apostolic Voice with Ryan French
- Ep. 69 | Should Christians & Pastors Be Involved in Politics? with David Tipton (MS District UPCI Superintendent), Pumpkin Oreos Good-Gross-Great with the Brocks, Sister Rachel Cole & French Fam
- Ep. 68 | The Asbury Revival: A Word of Caution (Support Your Local Revival) with Timothy Hadden
- Ep. 67 | Six Dating Standards for Apostolic Singles with Taylor French, Relearning Love (Poem)
- Ep. 66 | Praying In Tongues with Dr. Talmadge French, Ryan Raw & Real (YouTube Kids, Is Coming For Your Kids) with Jonathan French
- Ep. 65 | Part 2 – Relationslips with Taylor French, Brief Word from Dr. Talmadge French & Sour Gross-Good-Great
The burden of Truth is heavy. Sometimes it feels like too much to bear. The weight of knowledge is forever. It grips the heart with an icy stare.
Wondering soldiers know that home is elusive. They search for solace, yet it’s just not there. They look for hope in the strangest places. They search for kindness in angry faces.
The burden of Truth is an honor to carry. It hurts much more than we show or share. The cost of honor is expensive. It takes a toll yet most don’t care.
The dutiful soldier knows something of pain. A lesson that most have never retained. Opposition to Truth brings death to the soul. So, to the Truth we tenderly hold.
Dear one remember that life is a vapor. It’s not what we’re feeling that matters the most. For hearts are deceitful and often don’t know. It’s where we are going that matters the most.
Dear one remember that life is a vapor. It’s not what we’re feeling that matters the most. For hearts are deceitful and often don’t know. It’s where we are going that matters the most. #apostolicvoice #ryanfrenchTweet
What we touch today might be gone by tomorrow. Making the burden of Truth a blessing most hallowed. For what we can’t see will endure beyond sorrow. And, the depths of despair are blessedly shallow.
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