The voice resounds

pounding the earth

trodden by men and monster,

the grass leans to it, the trees bow to it,

the concerns of every heart foster the still small voice of a God who is there.

But in the black of blindness we forget the call

the whisper of volumes covering the earth

finding our every hiding place

offering comfort

appalled at the rhythm, the cadence of the voice.

Come back to me.

We stand at the gates of perdition’s flame

eyes seared in the wake, tears born from the burning ashes of those before

and through the door we would blindly stride,

save for the rhythm which flows

confide only in the melody of that voice which bids come back to me.

We find a man of like demise

propitiation throws him within our sight

and glances like daggers proceed whips broken upon his back

the voice he has

the cadence wrapped in limbs like ours, in hands which grasp to know what only the mind can see

The God who is there

spoke in silent steps becoming one to the road of suffering like the hammers which would drive the nail, broken by the weight of love

the dove of peace descending to lift him beyond our veil

tempted and tested and entering the city as the King he came to be

allowed nothing

pail anemic complexion marred with red flesh

See the man who would be king.

Left and right in trinitarian form

voices choosing their destiny amidst a sea of roman riot.

One voice prevails

hailing like thunder upon the annals of last confessions

unseen in its power but spoken from the cross, the throne of zion.

Forgive them for they know not what they do.

In the beginning spoke the voice the words that could not be extinguished

couched in anguish, soaked in blood, torn asunder by the leather of baal, chained to creation by iron and raised in blasphemy above your children.

Ironic bail from a prison of ones own creation.

And even with no one at his side to hear his voice

no one to protect or to defend him

the darkness could not fight the voice. The darkness could not comprehend it.

The darkness could not comprehend him.

In the end

his voice stands

spoken into victory

risen into history

proof of true love

resolve of light in the darkness

He is not dead,

silent in the graveyard of humanities ambition,

one voice among the crowd of those who stood out.

His voice resounds as sure as the light of day finds every seed,

His voice tells us he is risen.

He is risen indeed.

Published by Josh McGary

MY NAME IS JOSH MCGARY. First, I am a Pastor of a small church in Portland, Oregon named Aletheia Bible Fellowship. We call it ABF. I have been a pastor there for the better part of 20 years. I am very eclectic. What I love, I love loudly and immersively. I have notable collections of toys, funko pops, and vinyl. I also infamously love pop culture, comic books, technology, the arts, psychology and philosophy. https://sleek.bio/joshmcgary

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