This is an echo of wishupons towards the heavens and their house of grace and their tabernacle of redemption.
That His vocals be the black of ink dotting love and crossing sin off the back of my forgetful hands,
Always quick to catch loss with not enough love,
Grasping fight with not enough peace,
Trembling at the idea of all things God and good and will sometimes crack a nail but will never let me fall .
Stretching boundless an arm’s length of beatitudes so should I forget where truth and purpose have packaged my joy I need only walk across the follicles of heaven’s hairs to find mercy, shadowing me a new set of restored.
Only needing my hand, need his in matrimony and the promise of a hope beyond do the vocabulary of my too often opinionated mouth, always quick to judge and slow to apologize.
But God be my turning point.
Be David’s harp to my troubles in soul like King Saul all the way back to the memoirs of sin,
God be my saving grace.
Daniel speaks in a Mark 13:14 of the abomination of desolation that only an elect act will understand.
These be part of a celestial signal of a presidential king that shall come at the end of time when time be sisters to death,
Bearing no relevance against his deliverance vocals,
Shuddering graves and caves to call you out by name: saint.
Gathering unto 6 and a million more angelic voices the songs of Moses and the healed and redeemed,
Harnessing a paradise singers are yet to harmonize in.
But this be but just an echo of wishupons towards the heavens and their house of grace and their tabernacle of redemption.
His vocals be the black of ink dotting love and crossing sin off the back of my forgetful hands.