I’m afraid I’ve lost the piece of me
I need the most you see
This puzzle is really just about the need
To be somebody
I’m afraid
I’m not all that you see
All along the coast of me
I’m camouflaged, a desert mirage
A nobody
But you came so close and I assumed
You were looking
For the piece of yourself that’s lost
It is the hiding place inside everybody
And though we love to numb the pain
We come to learn that it’s in vain
Pain is our mother
She makes us recognize each other
Sometimes I feel so all alone
Here in this city I call my home
They say, Hey, you’re one of us
Funny, I should feel so anonymous
But I’m drawn to you
And that still small voice is talking too
And that’s the voice that so seldom can get through
You can’t put no bandaid on this cancer
Like a twenty note
For all the things you offer
You need questions
Forget about the answers
Do you really want to die this way?
Thursday, 30 August 2007
I thought that we would be
Further along by now
I can’t remember how
I stumbled to this place
I loved you like no one else
On a bad day maybe I thought why bother
I’ve seldom seen so much anger
In a face
I want to do better
I want to try harder
I want to believe
Down to the letter
Jesus
Can you carry us
Across this ocean
Into the arms of forgiveness
I don’t mean to laugh outloud
I’m trying to come clean
Trying to shed my doubt
Maybe I should just keep
My big mouth shut
More often than not
When it comes to you
You want whatever’s not in front of you
Deep down I know this includes me too
So tell me your troubles
Let your pain rain down
I know my job I’ve been around
I invest in the mess
I’m a low cost dumping ground
Trouble is I’m so exhausted
The plot, you see, I think I’ve lost it
I need the grace to find what can’t be found
Further along by now
I can’t remember how
I stumbled to this place
I loved you like no one else
On a bad day maybe I thought why bother
I’ve seldom seen so much anger
In a face
I want to do better
I want to try harder
I want to believe
Down to the letter
Jesus
Can you carry us
Across this ocean
Into the arms of forgiveness
I don’t mean to laugh outloud
I’m trying to come clean
Trying to shed my doubt
Maybe I should just keep
My big mouth shut
More often than not
When it comes to you
You want whatever’s not in front of you
Deep down I know this includes me too
So tell me your troubles
Let your pain rain down
I know my job I’ve been around
I invest in the mess
I’m a low cost dumping ground
Trouble is I’m so exhausted
The plot, you see, I think I’ve lost it
I need the grace to find what can’t be found
Tuesday, 28 August 2007
Exit
I have to leave the city now, she said,
Or dash my soul against my will instead.
I do not wish to have the quiet part of me
That once could rest (the part
That could just be) tossed
Aside and left somewhere
For dead.
Tonight it seems to me
That what some friends call energy
Is nothing more than a phenomenon of nature known as
"Incurable Whirling Disease."
Please, take me far from here, she said,
The buildings sting and echo
With the fumy cries of yellowjacket cars.
I took her hand in mine and said,
I'm thinking of a place now
Where I used to have to tell myself
Aloud,
Those are not clouds,
They're stars.
Copyright 2007, Linford Detweiler
Or dash my soul against my will instead.
I do not wish to have the quiet part of me
That once could rest (the part
That could just be) tossed
Aside and left somewhere
For dead.
Tonight it seems to me
That what some friends call energy
Is nothing more than a phenomenon of nature known as
"Incurable Whirling Disease."
Please, take me far from here, she said,
The buildings sting and echo
With the fumy cries of yellowjacket cars.
I took her hand in mine and said,
I'm thinking of a place now
Where I used to have to tell myself
Aloud,
Those are not clouds,
They're stars.
Copyright 2007, Linford Detweiler
Monday, 27 August 2007
Gentle Wounds
Entertaining visions of a lucid nature
Emotional precision, it's our best behaviour
Rattling the streetcars on forgotten streets
Making a connection with the bittersweet
Crawling into your mind for some radiant reunion
Tapping out the messages that signify communion
Pressed beneath His folded wings
The ground around receding
Feel love's stinging sword cut deep and catch
The joy that's bleeding out of Gentle wounds.
Feel the pang of hunger, feel the new life awaken
Restoring everything that once was taken
Symbolizing agony that made the women weep
Feel love's stinging sword slice deep and catch
The joy that's bleeding out of Gentle wounds.
Bruised and beaten torn apart
The price that's paid for love divine
Can't spare your life don't spare your heart
Just feel the joy that's bleeding out of Gentle wounds.
Gentle wounds, gentle
Gentle wounds, gentle wounds
Gentle wounds, gentle
Gentle wounds.
Emotional precision, it's our best behaviour
Rattling the streetcars on forgotten streets
Making a connection with the bittersweet
Crawling into your mind for some radiant reunion
Tapping out the messages that signify communion
Pressed beneath His folded wings
The ground around receding
Feel love's stinging sword cut deep and catch
The joy that's bleeding out of Gentle wounds.
Feel the pang of hunger, feel the new life awaken
Restoring everything that once was taken
Symbolizing agony that made the women weep
Feel love's stinging sword slice deep and catch
The joy that's bleeding out of Gentle wounds.
Bruised and beaten torn apart
The price that's paid for love divine
Can't spare your life don't spare your heart
Just feel the joy that's bleeding out of Gentle wounds.
Gentle wounds, gentle
Gentle wounds, gentle wounds
Gentle wounds, gentle
Gentle wounds.
Sunday, 19 August 2007
Dirty wee tramps...
Our Gomar had gone home...Emma and I where just sitting, talking, watching and waiting...it was raining, we were wet.
I had just asked Emma, how do we become a Gomar, without actually becoming a Gomar...how do we become acquainted with their grief? I realise today that what I asked Emma on Thursday night was actually to tell me of Jesus...
There was nothing attractive about Him, nothing to cause us to take a second look. He was looked down on and passed over, a man who suffered, who knew pain firsthand. One look at Him and people turned away. We looked down on Him, thought He was scum. But the fact is, it was our pains He carried— our disfigurements, all the things wrong with us. We thought He brought it on Himself, that God was punishing Him for His own failures. But it was our sins that did that to Him, that ripped and tore and crushed Him—our sins! He took the punishment, and that made us whole. Through His bruises we get healed.
A car with four girls came down the street...as they drove past, they slowed down, winding down the window of their car...'dirty wee tramps'...they shouted. Ive never been called a dirty wee tramp before. As the girls drove off, Charlie came round the corner...he wondered what I was offering and how much it would cost...I told him I wasn't working, he said fair enough. As this lonely older gentleman walked off, Emma and I offered him conversation...he wondered how much that cost too...I could hear his silent pleading, I could feel his desperation. His desolate sorrow echoed in my head. I didn't know how to respond to Charlie...communication had failed me...any efforts to reach across this great gulf where beyond me.
To crush Him with pain. The plan was that He give Himself as an offering for sin so that He would see life come from it—life, life, and more life.
And God's plan will deeply prosper through Him.
Out of that terrible travail of soul, He will see that it's worth it and be glad He did it.
Through what He experienced, The righteous one, The servant, will make many "righteous ones," as He himself carries the burden of their sins.
Those girls in that car, looked down on us and thought we were scum. It surprised me how much could be conveyed through their words. The emotional territory of a marginalised people becoming very real to me. May it be our Gomar's pain that we carry— May Your plan Father deeply prosper through us, Your dirty wee tramps.
I had just asked Emma, how do we become a Gomar, without actually becoming a Gomar...how do we become acquainted with their grief? I realise today that what I asked Emma on Thursday night was actually to tell me of Jesus...
There was nothing attractive about Him, nothing to cause us to take a second look. He was looked down on and passed over, a man who suffered, who knew pain firsthand. One look at Him and people turned away. We looked down on Him, thought He was scum. But the fact is, it was our pains He carried— our disfigurements, all the things wrong with us. We thought He brought it on Himself, that God was punishing Him for His own failures. But it was our sins that did that to Him, that ripped and tore and crushed Him—our sins! He took the punishment, and that made us whole. Through His bruises we get healed.
A car with four girls came down the street...as they drove past, they slowed down, winding down the window of their car...'dirty wee tramps'...they shouted. Ive never been called a dirty wee tramp before. As the girls drove off, Charlie came round the corner...he wondered what I was offering and how much it would cost...I told him I wasn't working, he said fair enough. As this lonely older gentleman walked off, Emma and I offered him conversation...he wondered how much that cost too...I could hear his silent pleading, I could feel his desperation. His desolate sorrow echoed in my head. I didn't know how to respond to Charlie...communication had failed me...any efforts to reach across this great gulf where beyond me.
To crush Him with pain. The plan was that He give Himself as an offering for sin so that He would see life come from it—life, life, and more life.
And God's plan will deeply prosper through Him.
Out of that terrible travail of soul, He will see that it's worth it and be glad He did it.
Through what He experienced, The righteous one, The servant, will make many "righteous ones," as He himself carries the burden of their sins.
Those girls in that car, looked down on us and thought we were scum. It surprised me how much could be conveyed through their words. The emotional territory of a marginalised people becoming very real to me. May it be our Gomar's pain that we carry— May Your plan Father deeply prosper through us, Your dirty wee tramps.
Excuse me, we are making a program about prostitution.
Anne Widdencombe. Wednesday night.
"Excuse me, we are making a program about prostitution"
"STOP THE SEX TRADE...I am sending out a blunt and unbending message...but when you see the problem first hand you will understand why...pleasant leafy part of ? popular with families but sadly also popular with a very different type of person...women who sell themselves for sex...women like these...shameless, desperate and probably on drugs...blatantly out on the streets, all hours of the day and night, with no regard for the decent families that live here..."
"Are you Colette? Are you doing it again?"
"There has got to more to life than this?"
"I would love to talk with Colette about this sorry life she has chosen"
"1 in 20 men have used the services of a prostitute...that's a lot of punters"
"Initially i did it out of curiosity, I thought it was one of those rights of passage that perhaps any curious young man should find out..."
(Piers Hernu)
"Did you think about their lives when you are using them?"
"Am I really taking part in someone else's downfall...or am I just entering into an honest contract between someone who is selling and some one who is buying?"
(Piers Hernu)
"You are in your mid twenties...you are a young woman, you have got your life ahead of you, child bearing years ahead of you, opportunities ahead of you...don't you sometimes wake up in the morning and think, that's it, no more, I am going to get clean, I am going to live normally..."
"You go home, your mother WILL want you...she gave birth to you...ring your mum..."
"Ive got a feeling we will say goodbye to you and will be on the streets tonight...I don't want you on the streets tonight...I want you safe tonight..."
"this place is teeming with prostitutes"
I don't think I can narrate any more of this documentary...I don't know if I want to.
I cannot deny the sorded reality of prostitution exposed here, but I shudder at the language used to describe, label and inform.
If I came out of my front door and found a woman lying there with a needle in her...I wonder what I would do? I wonder would I screw up my face in disgust, in ignorant pity and leave her there in a heap of her own bad choices?
Or would I kneel down, lift her head out of her vomit, wipe her hair back from her face and carry her through an open door?
"Excuse me, we are making a program about prostitution"
"STOP THE SEX TRADE...I am sending out a blunt and unbending message...but when you see the problem first hand you will understand why...pleasant leafy part of ? popular with families but sadly also popular with a very different type of person...women who sell themselves for sex...women like these...shameless, desperate and probably on drugs...blatantly out on the streets, all hours of the day and night, with no regard for the decent families that live here..."
"Are you Colette? Are you doing it again?"
"There has got to more to life than this?"
"I would love to talk with Colette about this sorry life she has chosen"
"1 in 20 men have used the services of a prostitute...that's a lot of punters"
"Initially i did it out of curiosity, I thought it was one of those rights of passage that perhaps any curious young man should find out..."
(Piers Hernu)
"Did you think about their lives when you are using them?"
"Am I really taking part in someone else's downfall...or am I just entering into an honest contract between someone who is selling and some one who is buying?"
(Piers Hernu)
"You are in your mid twenties...you are a young woman, you have got your life ahead of you, child bearing years ahead of you, opportunities ahead of you...don't you sometimes wake up in the morning and think, that's it, no more, I am going to get clean, I am going to live normally..."
"You go home, your mother WILL want you...she gave birth to you...ring your mum..."
"Ive got a feeling we will say goodbye to you and will be on the streets tonight...I don't want you on the streets tonight...I want you safe tonight..."
"this place is teeming with prostitutes"
I don't think I can narrate any more of this documentary...I don't know if I want to.
I cannot deny the sorded reality of prostitution exposed here, but I shudder at the language used to describe, label and inform.
If I came out of my front door and found a woman lying there with a needle in her...I wonder what I would do? I wonder would I screw up my face in disgust, in ignorant pity and leave her there in a heap of her own bad choices?
Or would I kneel down, lift her head out of her vomit, wipe her hair back from her face and carry her through an open door?
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