Angel

I wrote this a few years ago, I think it's still my favorite of all my songs

Father used to say “Son, this world is troubled.

So you must find the way, but do not be befuddled

When you can’t see the path beneath your feet— Cry out my child, for you’re incomplete.

And if you pray, you will find deliverance this very day.”

So I found a path in the undergrowth, ‘twas a road less taken

And I wondered as I wandered through that yellow wood- Oh had I been mistaken?

Then I looked up to the skies, searching for the eyes that sought me out

Though all I saw was stars and fireflies, still I cried out

Angel fly away

Angel take me away

Angel’s wings brushed up against my face. I felt their power; I met their grace.

How did father know what I would face? I found his gift within this glorious blaze.

I turned my gaze unto the west- a weathered oak with scars upon its flesh.

Set deep within its bark, those years ago my father left his mark when he cried

Angel fly away

Angel take me away

Angel fly away

Angel take me away

My Master, My Father

I'm a son, not a slave
I'm an heir to a grave
Yet this tomb is not filled with bones--but with grace

Ambrosia is a bitter cup
That steals the soul, but fills the gut
It makes a man to run for years
And lose the life he once held dear


I'm a son, not a slave
I'm an heir to a grave
Yet this tomb is not filled with bones--but with grace

The sun, the sea, and dear old gravity
They seek my wings
They long to keep my flight in check
But they ain't seen nothin' yet

I'm a son, not a slave
I'm an heir to a grave
Yet this tomb is not filled with bones--but with grace

Though I may burn, and then burn out
I'll fall to ash without a doubt
You'll find therein a molten mirth
It lies within the phoenix' birth


I'm a son, not a slave
I'm an heir to a grave
Yet this tomb is not filled with bones--but with grace

Brother, Sister

listen to it here!--http://www.youtube.com/user/PartywithSaul?feature=mhee#p/a/u/1/roiCXQX82Pc


Brother, sister, there is healing in the river

So come down and be delivered from your chains

Son and daughter, there is mending in the water

He will use the holy solder to fix the lame

Friend and foe, tell everybody that you know

That there’s redemption in the flow from all our pasts

Peasants, kings, and everybody in between

Sell all your homes and all your things for what will last

 

This paradox is more than I 

can comprehend but I will try 

because I know in grace I’ll thrive 

and truly be alive 

for the first time

So come on down, let out your breath and we can drown

And we’ll come up with shining crowns upon our heads

And there in Zion, we’ll behold one like a lion

Blazing brighter than orion, and we’ll be wed

This paradox is more than I 

can comprehend but I will try 

because I know in grace I’ll thrive 

and truly be alive 

for the first time

Broken Binds Us

Every once in a while, I find a piece of art, literature, or music that I wish I'd written. I find something that resonates so soundly with me that I feel as if it was my soul that composed it in the first place, and I just reflect upon my own work. Apparently copyright laws don't see things this way. Regardless, this song is one of those. It's called "Broken Binds Us" by Adam Pasion

Aren’t we all so broken, each and everyone?

Our sailboats are sinking in the mist of a setting sun

Need we be further familiar eyes

With the hopelessness of paling water in rising tides

Let me lay my hands on you, let me feel your pain

We’re all bruised and broken left out in the rain

Let me draw you in, let me pray out your name

Let us search you through and through—don’t be ashamed

Believe in, believe in me, as I believe in you

Will Iove heal your heart if I believe in you

In the depths of sorrow we feel alone

But isn’t brokenness what binds us

The song that we all know

It’s the cup that we all drink of until we’re full

It drips down into the belly, seeps into our soul

Believe in, believe in me, as I believe in you

Will Iove heal your heart if I believe in you

In this great big world, see how we relate

We are all in, on our way to, on our way from this lonely state

In this great big world with all its sticks and stones

We are anything but alone

Believe in, believe in me, as I believe in you

Will Iove heal your heart if I believe in you

 

Let us be broken, for it’s the only place from which you can rebuild

Ground down to fine dust, pour Your water in and mold us with Your hands

A Simile Is Like A Metaphor...

Writing is an odd thing. In so many ways, I feel not only like the words that I put down here reflect me, but that the words are me. Some guy who I've never heard of (turns out he's a sports writer. whoops.) once said, "There's nothing to writing.  All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein." I like that quote, even though I don't like sports writers.

So often I feel like my writing is just a written record of my heartbeat. That's when I read something that I wrote years ago. Rarely a good idea. Sometimes I'll come across something I've written years ago and I'll just be appalled that I could've called it finished. Sometimes I won't even recognize it as something I myself created. That's never a good thing.

You'd think that if I had taken the time to compose something, and that if that very thing had come from my own passion, that I would remember it, but it isn't so. Some pieces, however, I could write in 15 minutes, then recite verbatim for months. The inspiration hits me like a lightening strike and leaves a scar that I'll never forget.

But what about papers that I write for school? I could make that crap all day and never give it a second thought. Even though that writing is completely meaningless to me, teachers will always praise me for my 5 minute essays that contain nothing memorable. They're simply 5 paragraphs of me telling them what they want to hear, but I could spend 100 years forming what I consider to be my literary masterpieces and no one might ever read them. And as much as the idea of that may bother me, I'm actually pretty okay with it in reality. It's probably just because I find writing so cathartic. So for the 3 of you who follow me, thanks! It means a lot to me. Regardless of who may read this though, it's probably more for me than it is for any of you. I just thought I'd make this known so that if I say anything horrible about you or just start making inside jokes with myself on here, you won't be offended or weirded out, because it's not you, it's me. I still want to be friends though.

A Sea Rages

So I just watched Francis Chan's "Basic. Fear God." and I felt inspired.



As I lay within my bed preparing to depart
To lands of bliss and fantasy hid deep within my heart,
I heard the waves begin to rise—they swallowed all the floor
With arms of foam and feet of sand they held fast shut the door.

As inches of the salty sea began to swell and grow,
I started to unlearn my life. I started not to know.
There was one thing I understood, one fact I held quite dear:
The truest thing that swallowed me was unrelenting fear.

Anxiety possessed the key to shutting out the flow,
But try did I with all my might, I couldn’t help but show.
I jumped upon my bed and hoped the vessel wouldn’t fail.
I grasped the sheets with trembling hands and screamed to no avail.

Then the waters rose above the beaten mattress sloop,
And all I had to save myself was hope I couldn’t group.
The ceiling stared excitedly expecting my approach
I put my hands upon his face and showed him my reproach.

Alas the tide had come in full, and all my breaths were gone.
With acrid tears and widened eyes I bid farewell the dawn.
That moment magnified my fear to heights I’d never known—
The oceans and the weight of dread both chilled me to the bone.

So with the last of all my time I breathed in deep the brine,
Though what I found, not fright but life, filled up those lungs of mine.
And had I known it all along I never would have fought
I would have drowned a thousand times to be so finely wrought.

Broken Dove

These shackles bind my feet to floor and keep me still within,
But restlessly the Spirit stirs the movement of my limbs.
From shoulders weary—slumped and scarred, a hope begins to rise
As sun shines in and pierces dark to turn my tired eyes
Toward One who lives, though once He died; the darkness held Him down.
It didn't know the Plans of Old, deep rooted in that ground.
His blood flowed down, and as it ran, it cauterized my lashes
And from this back came wings to fly—the feathers from the ashes.
I try to run on winds and soar, but pain brings swift decline.
No strength I have can pull me up. My brokenness is mine.
And just before I hit the waves, Your grace lets me ascend;
I feel You lift me from the depths, I feel the holy hands.

So Music Maker hear my cry, Omniscient know my love.
My gratitude will never end, You mend the broken dove.