Note To my Christ

When my life with Jesus suffers. Prayers become sighs of desperation and grief within. Silence and doubt. Jesus, where is Your Presence? Oh, how I suffer, groping for Your Light! I lay with my cheek to the road again, tears seek Your fellowship. Greeted by cruel gravel. Scratched and kissed by blackest pavement, sprawled as if dead, missing You. The eagle’s wings have flown away. I taste the salt in my mouth, the bloody pieces of this hemorraging soul without my Christ, the holes re-surface, deep holes I had attempted to shovel the manure of my good works, of my aspirations, and all of my good intentions, and injuries, to bury myself under the past.

My Christ, how to describe Him. My Christ is Resplendent, seated upon a Throne, unimaginable height and majesty, indescribable beauty. He is Seated, and His Mercy Fills The Temple with Glory! My Christ is wounded, pierced side, pierced hands, and feet, with the injuries we inflicted upon Him when He came to the earth. He journeyed here, from the Glory of God, from a Throne, surrounded by angels, seraphim, cherubim, living creatures with flame, from thunderous shouts of HOLY! HOLY! HOLY! to live among a sinful creation. I imagine my Christ to still possess the scars of the Crucifixion.

When I sing to Him on my knees with outstetched palms, on my face, humbled at the Feet of my Glorious Christ. I imagine myself at His Feet. This is my favorite place, at His Feet, I feel safest away from all the harm I do to myself. Away from the harsh tones, the scoldings, the screams of a world that cannot be satiated. He satiates me.

I have sung to my Christ, songs by Keith Green, “Create In Me a Clean Heart”, from Psalm 51 is one of my favorites. The words go beyond me, such powerful words that promise forgiveness to myself and to all those around.

The forgiveness that is a crucifixion inside me. I let myself bleed, in trying to forgive and in allowing Jesus to restore me. I let myself die with my Christ, to have His Soul embrace mine. To give Him my soul. How I long to be rid of myself. To not be concerned with all of my pettiness, my self-pityings, and my piousity. Oh how I hate, how I loathe the good intention inside of me.

Let me go with my Christ, to rid myself of this heavy body, a corpse, so heavy with shame. So shattered I scarcely know where to begin, as I weep, I have unknowing, distraught, with the conundrums of myself. How do I put Humpty back together again?

Let Humpty die. Let Christ slay Humpty. Let Christ slay this Humpty woman.

Then I smile a little, with joy Christ pulls out the reptile flesh, the hard scabbed parts that are heavy and rotted. My unforgiveness of my parents, that turtle shell, a futile old house, I have told myself I need. But what function does it serve, what purpose?

My Christ when I sing to You, soft creation, regenerates the toughest of thoughts, and the “idiotic memories” that have become warped and deformed with age.

I feel my Christ loves me when I am rested upon His Feet. When my tears stream down cleansing waterfalls onto His Feet, when I lean, a crooked spine, my Christ lifts me in His embrace the Lovingkindness, the Mercy of touching His Grace.

For I know men would have and have thrown me from their arrogant feet, their feet with kicks, their feet that have walked away. My tears they shunned. My tears wasted to the earth.

My Christ does not hate me. Even when I hate the shape sin has hammered me into, my Christ, even when I believe You have forsaken me. You laid Your body bare to be hammered by sin, You were forsaken.

Your Feet I have lavished thousands of kisses upon. I have imagined myself to kiss Your Feet repeatedly. It is a good feeling, of loving ,my Christ, of worshiping at the Feet of God.

The pain He has turned into Joy. When my anger wells out as harsh as blood spurting.

The sighs that overcome me. The questions that eviscerate me. The prayers I have no understanding of. My words spill out, as a sword plunged to pour out bleeding prayers. My Christ takes His Hands to fill my sorrows, to take them from me. Not one tear drop is lost. He absorbs the cries that have drowned me.

I run after You, my Christ, as if to scream, my desperation for You. I take off running, swept over, so profoundly, that emptiness when you leave, oh the emptiness when we are not in deepest communion, as Lord and servant, Father and child, Master and slave. When the communion, the richness of touching begins to die out. When the embers of my passion die out.

I have boasted and angels have whispered to me.

“He is Christ.”

“Worship at His Feet.”

“For your refreshment.”

My Praise for my Christ has consumed me.

I laugh

I sing

I dance

I weep

all in a single emotion

a burst, a jolt of lightning,

and i am picked clean of rotting scabs,

gently excoriated, new flesh blooms.

My fragrance is of a new creation.

A new birth.

Beautiful sentences, a soulful language,


so beyond, sings itself into a thousand praises,

poems written and birthed through the flames

of tears

of anguish hot

My Christ creates feelings

real, and of great magnitude

stepping up mountains

where breathing leaves me

I step into the air

air tangible

no longer frightened,

the eyes behold all of the spaces

I could not discern

My Christ sheds my tears.

My heart releases His Joy

Deepest Empathy

Our Souls United

He travels my roads of suffering.

We suffer together

to walk an intimate road.

My Christ is not apart from me

in worship

not an arrogant bystander

my emotions gushed do not repel Him

or insult Him

As a child, a babe,

He accepts the Praise, the weak Praise

of an infant,

of a child,

of a silly woman,

so fragile,

all hair and teeth,

and tears and longing

a soul exposed and bleeding

and naked, weeping,

the dysentary of humanity

should shame Him,

and me

Shame is a river where His Feet

have walked

through my river,

all twisted with heartache,

and muddy with sin

the shame sludge stains my heart

But His Garment White and Glistening

absorbs the millions of stains I have worn

then disappear

He is on a Throne

He has walked with me

His Feet I touched with my hair

He has washed me with His Righteousness

so blinding and pure

I am not scabbed, when worship trandscends me

My Christ was crucified

for my healing

A healing I feel when I worship

I feel His footsteps gentle over my heart

My Christ Your suffering is my healing

Your Anguish is a Gift

A sewing,

A planting

A cleansing

A profundity

A whisper

a breath!

a victory!

a rebirth!

My Christ delivers

I am a theif crucified beside You

I look to You to save me from my death

not just this death of flesh

but the eternal death

My longing to end the corruption

of this body with its misdeeds

I slip into another room with You

away from the body, of flesh,

I slip off my skin,

and the visions inside worship

dresses me in the garments of Righteousness

There is a Song, and my heart seems to know it

words I know better than any other

fills my lungs with Glory

7 Breaths

7 Blinks

7 Steps

I touch the Bruise of Your Glory!

The Crushing of Your Lordship!

You kiss me 77 × 7

Oh, and how I fall at Your Feet

so humbled by Your Grace

My lips drink in Your Mercy

The Honey of Your Words drips rich

Your milky hope tastes familiar

once again

An ocean of forgiveness springs between my toes

realizing I have not even begun to swim the depths

of Your Love

There is a Eternity in Worshiping You, my Christ

There is Hope.

Note To my Christ

Matty B. Duran

Joined July 2009

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