Curse of Cosmetics.

Pretty, perfect, painted people striving to attain beauty.

Carefully apply that makeup, girl,

Don’t want anyone seeing through your mask, your facade.

No telling what would happen if someone saw the real you.

But I know, I know.

I know that the real you is full of discontent with your flaws!

Even the slightest blemish fills your spirit with fear of rejection.

So you find yourself full of hate and self-medicate with the next new product.

The next new thing’s gotta work right?

Keep applying that lipstick extra thick

because if those smoky eyes won’t get him, you can seduce him with your lips;

A sticky marriage of wine and cosmetics is called sophisticated in higher social order,

But the same combination on the streets is called a tramp.

Don’t cheapen yourself in the name of Beauty!

You’re worth so much more than that.

O, pretty, perfect, painted people,

You have no sense!

Like a ring in the pig’s snout you adorn what cannot be made beautiful from the outside.

But if only you could see what Jesus sees on the inside.

Then you will find peace.

Then you sill find security.

And your pretty, perfect, painted facade will vanish like shadows in sunlight.

Pure, perfect spirit will remain.


Puppet Master

God, You’re so holy, Jesus, You’re so worthy.

I’ll shout your name from the rooftops,

I’ll declare your name from high steeples!

Just don’t look at my personal life.

No, really, it’s nothing bad…

It’s just that sometimes I’m not always sincere.

And sometimes I’m just putting up a front.

Happy, painted, plastic Christian faces.

We are all puppets personified

Who take the control form the Master’s hand.

We direct our own show, we choose the lines.

We step up on our pedestal

Because we all have correct opinions about life, and pain, and happiness.

We point to the Master, we’ll even praise His name!

But praise from a prideful heart is a mockery.

We degrade our Master by treating Him like a dog.

“Who’s a good master? You are!

Who’s a good master? You are…”

And we expect Him to be okay with that?

Our lips declare His name but out hearts…

Well, we’ll just hold on to that now won’t we?

The Master carved us, shaped us, gave us life, He even gave us a will to choose.

And we choose to hold back.

To keep our hearts where they can be safe,

Because we are so good at knowing what’s best for us.

But only Master knows how the story unfolds.

And as for me, I’d rather let Him be the force that makes me move.

I’ll let him be the voice in my throat.

His life keeps me alive.

Humbly, I’ll let Him move me.

All the while I’ll praise His holy Name.

Master! Take back control!

If you will, Jesus just use me in Your divine story.

I’ll declare your name from high steeples.

I’ll shout your name from rooftops.

God you’re so holy, Jesus you’re so worthy.

Master, take control.

Beautiful Hot Mess.

She’s a beautiful hot mess!

Her life is filled with broken bottles, broken hearts and burnt out cigarettes.

She promises she’ll quit drinking as soon as she gets her kids back!

But her kids can’t take away the pain her last boyfriend left her with.

So she’ll cope with a little self medication.

Oh! but if only those pills could take the pain away!

She pops them like candy, hoping, begging, just praying they’ll be enough to make her pain free.


But they’re never enough.

Her family calls it a miracle but she believes she’s cursed!

Cursed to suffer, cursed to wake up every morning in her own personally designed hell.

Waiting, just waiting, just desperately praying it will all end soon.

She’s got a revolver tucked away in her closet.

She’s too afraid to used it but she’s too determined to give it away.

Her kids get to see her once a week if she remembers to go visit.

Each time she forgets, her little girl weeps.

He son comforts his little sister, knowing it’s up to him to be strong;

knowing it’s up to him to break the generational curse,

to break the cycle of booze and pills.

But he doesn’t understand how hard his mother really tries!

Really, she does.

She silently attends mass every Sunday morning.

She kneels with the flock and begs that He might make this life worth living.

But her prayers seemingly bounce off the ceiling, returned to sender.

She doesn’t understand why He pours out blessing on so many others and leaves her out.

Doesn’t He see her?

Doesn’t He want to stop her suffering?

She doesn’t think so, so she goes back to the bottle.

And with every swing she hears a still small voice:

I love you. I can take your pain away. Just trust me. You can be free if you just put the bottle down.

And as she chases away sobriety the voice slowly fades.

She finds comfort in the familiar silence of her mind.

But there’s a seed deep within the crevasses of her heart.

It sprouts every know and then.

Without the proper water it dies.

Won’t someone give her water?

Won’t someone pour in?

She’s a beautiful hot mess

With an ounce of hope left;

With an once of rum at the bottom of that bottle.

And that still small voice repeats:

I love you. I can take your pain away. Just trust me. You can be free if you just put the bottle down.


Then glass shatters on pavement.

Daddy’s Daughter.

She cries out, “Daddy, daddy!”

But Daddy wasn’t there to protect her from the monsters in the closet.

He wasn’t there when she needed a neck to hug,

When she felt so alone.

She was only 5 at the time.

She didn’t understand that daddy was away at work;

That he would be back in a days.

But now at 16 she comes home to find daddy not there again.

She doesn’t know why mom’s crying at the kitchen table,

Or why grandma and grandpa are crying with her.

She cries out, “Daddy, daddy!”

But daddy’s not there, and this time, he’s not coming back.

She runs to his room to find a bloodstained bed stripped of sheets.

She collapses on the floor sobbing in agonizing despair.

You see, he couldn’t provide for his family anymore.

He lost his job and lost his hope.

He was living in torment

and even his smiling beautiful daughter wasn’t enough to take the pain away.

But now daddy’s daughter lives in torment.

Why would he do that? Didn’t he care?

And I know some of you have asked these same questions;

Have faced these same realities.

And some of you haven’t even met your dearest dad.

But I’m here to tell you there’s still a Daddy out there for you.

He’s been protecting you and loving you since even before your grandparents met.

There’s still a Daddy who cares.

There’s still a Daddy who’s there,

Who hasn’t checked out and who won’t even let that though cross His mind.

Oh, I’ve heard about this Daddy before.

And I’m not buying it!

You don’t know where I’ve been.

You don’t know what I’ve seen.

If there was truly a Daddy in Heaven who loved me,

Who cared, why would He let this life happened to me?

Honey, I don’t know where you’ve been.

I don’t know what you’ve seen.

And I know I’ll never be able to fully understand.

But I know my Daddy in heaven let His Son die so I could meet Him one day.

I know that my Daddy proved His matchless love by allowing the world to kill His Son to make a way for you and me.

This is the purpose behind what I do;

To show you that there’s still a Daddy who’s looking out for you.

The Well.

My heart is a well,

The depths is my soul.

My spirit is flowing water.

My God is the rock beneath me,

my foundation, my filter.

He purifies my waters and makes them clean.

In proper seasons and perfect times he overflows me;

But in proper seasons and perfect times he allows my well to dry.

I am forced to dig deeper into the rock.

And the deeper I dig, the more saturated I find the rock to be.

I dig, I burrow until I can go no farther, and I dig more.

And suddenly living water renews the dryness;

Bursting from the rock beneath me.

And filling my well to the brim.

Shaken together, pressed down and running over.

The Prophets. (Ezekiel and Isaiah)

God brought me a vision with dry bones on the ground;

This valley was barren and as I looked around

The dusty bones began to quiver and shake with anticipation;

A rattling sound, representative of their destination.

An army under One King, armed and ready for war,

A battle in the last says which will not be short of gore.

So I prophesy of these bones and joints and tendons form;

I speak your power and their flesh becomes warm.


But God, only Your breath can make them truly alive.

So Holy Breath of God I prophesy:  In these corpses, you will abide.

Break open old greaves and raise up Your elite,

Armed with the Word, and Gospel-readiness on their feet.

But even among these I sense the enemy sowing fear.

Gift us with wisdom, and discernment to hear

The subtle difference of Your Truth and his deception

So that we don’t fall victim to the cunning art of inception.


High King of Heaven, I pray over this coming day

That You would purify us, so we can walk strong in Your way.

And as we join with the angels singing “Holy, holy, holy!”

God will release the floodgates of blessing and mercy.

“Whom shall I send to save this dying generation?

Who will go for us to bring forth restoration?”

And I cry:  “Here am I! Send me!”

I’m battle-armed and ready, and dying to see

My people to come to know you;

It’s my heart’s cry and all I can do

Is seek Your face now and forevermore.

As I prepare for battle, a violent spiritual war.


And when the bottom drops out, I want you to be all need;

Because you’ll be all I have, I’ve no room for greed.

When my pen runs dry and I’m out of words to sing,

When I’m all washed up, all I’ve left to bring;

It’s more than a song to sing with my voice,

It’s my soul, my living sacrifice, my choice.

To give up control on my life, it’s yours to use,

However you will, and however you choose.


Composed on April 29, 2011.


What would it take for things to be quiet;

For the world to stand still, if only for a moment?

To breathe a cool mountain breeze and look off from the peak.

I want to take in the view of the world from that peak

And realize again, how small I really am.

I want to be alone on that peak,

Just me and my Creator.

I just want a deep breath of fresh, crisp air

And to sit in awe of the majesty of earth;

The footstool of the Heavens.

I want all of my questions not to matter anymore.

To be so enraptured by the Presence of the Most Holy God

That all I can do is be silent and forget my thoughts.

I can’t remember the last time I had a quiet mind.

I can’t remember the last time I didn’t have a worry

Because my mind is so full of worrisome questions about what will happen next,

About where to go from here?

I feel as though I have aged so much these past years.

My soul is so incredibly old.

But my understanding is infantile.

So I live in a constant state of paradox

Just hoping, just praying, just waiting to hear that still, small voice to whisper.

To tell me that everything will be all right.

That although a storm is raging and voices are screaming

And I can’t make out the sound in the noise,

That there is a plan, there is a way.

There is a peace I’ve yet to reveal.

Oh, what would it take for things to be quiet?