Lean in and listen -
creation’s cadence carved in quiet hymns,
soft as dust when night first learns its name,
then sharper. Light crackles like flint on stone,
sparking galaxies that wheel to the rhythm of a single breath,
ripples of song folding time and space into trembling chorus;
Whose whisper woke this wildfire of worlds?

Name Him? You can’t frame flame.
Yet watch:
He paints thunder on the rim of a robin’s egg,
etches echo into marrow,
carves whole seasons into a seed,
writes psalms on the underside of rain
where only roots can read.

Stop pretending the cosmos is mute.
With marvel and majesty the heavens ring,
“Who breathes fire into the equations?”

Come and meet Him.

Flesh and bone
slave and king
both the singer and the song.
Whip cracks, blood drips, bloody back.
Eyes of love, the suffering servant sighs,
and dies.

Yet he's alive
and more: he is life.
Only the one who weeps can wipe your tears.
He walks barefoot across the blueprint of your fears,
his wounded hands touching yours in the tremor.
So trade your tidy proofs and your messy grief.
He welcomes the wreck.
In the wreck he is architect,
in the ache he is ache-breaker.

Come and meet Him:
not in corridors of echo, but in the raw roar
of your own exhale.
Speak nothing -
or empty your history at His feet.
Dump your doubts out loud.
Let them fall like rusted keys unlocking the mystery of mercy,
let it rush the room like oxygen after drowning,
let love revise the syllables of your scars.

Now, feel the furnace in your chest rise and ring -
every heartbeat hammering “holy” through your ribs.
No more exile here.
Welcome home.