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(~)






There was a story of a man-
who wrote from the heart.

With pen in hand he cut-
through worldly waters-
absent of all, but his faith.






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He wrote:







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He-comes-in-the-morning ... !


















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  ~
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"I-
am the wick He is the light ... . 
His majesty surrounds all of Him-us-
I reach ... ! The chains from my pen bind me ... .
Lord help me! Why oh why ... ? Would you die for me ... ?
Teach me Lord brake-me Lord, 
make me Lord again" ... ? 
Help me know ... ?





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So it ensued they shunned him: 


in my busy world I stopped by and read it! it supported me ... . 

I mean I really studied it in comparison to mine. The lives I see, the history, of what I have felt, believed.

That you cannot hear, see it yourselves. I haven't heard, seen of a faith such as this in quite a long time.

Where and what people were you doing and where were you at, yourself at
your lowest moment, when God came to you if you haven't asked Him yet? 
This man is weak within because of this "Powerful" I feel with his God in the absence of self.

How many of you would spill there "life's''" "guts" on to page?

For all like some of you to read? Be "bashed' for this! No your fear has held you fully, kept you from this.

Maybe people He, Our God must truly hurt for him, given the conversations. For you, for me.

So he is not of the greatest writers, but what an effort. It was written through something greater I feel, for 
you and me. 
It was for me a greater expression of faith, yes ...  faithfulness in something other than himself I know now 
he has expressed through his belief.

I know given my own fears, doubt, pain, It seems I could have never have expressed what he so plainly now 
has put to page. 
Seemingly as you have shown him what he feared. All given still I feel knowing myself in my own life the 
torture of all this kind of bantering, 
coldness of words, echoes of his our world. His words he still gave I feel, knowing this, without a thought of 
himself.
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