Brent Rogers, Kojima Japan

It`s kind of sad
that all the writers of
all the songs
don`t know
to whom all the praise really belongs.

Isn`t it tragic that all
the people on all the trains
and planes
and buses
don`t know where they are going.

With all the buying
and selling
and shopping
never stopping
and nobody knows the price.

The clocks and watches everywhere
alarms and bells and whistles sounding
schedule books and calendars
digital and analog abounding,
but nobody knows the time.

All the fun and festivals
the music and the pomp.
life is one big romp.
and then you die.
and nobody knows why
and nobody really bothers to find out.

But there is ONE
who knows
and cares
and speaks
and loves
and listens.
He is the way, the truth, and the life.
He is having the real after-party.
And you are invited.

see Matthew 11;28-30

In the beginning He wrote everything.
Out of the chaos of Everything, He wrote order
and light
and freewill and love.
He wrote beauty
and harmony
and companionship.
He wrote every good and only good.
Man walked all over the page with muddy, bloody footprints.
The Writer erased, almost completely, and re-wrote, vowing never to do such a drastic re-write again.
Man walked all over the page with muddy, bloody footprints.
He wrote on stone, in the air, on walls, in the sand.
“Somehow, this isn’t working”, the writer worried.
“If I could just become a word, I could get down there on the page and get to know those wretches. I could show them what is really is in my mind. Maybe we could get somewhere that way.”
The Writer from all Eternity wanted to write on hearts. And so The Word became flesh and dwelt among us and we have seen his glory.
And man walked across the page with muddy, bloody footprints.
The Glory was dulled.
The Word was silenced.
The page was desolate.
Just mud and blood.
And shame
And fear
And a deep gloomy sadness.
Despair

But not for long.

All the evil forces in existence could not keep the Creator bound, could not keep the word quiet, could not keep the Glory under wraps.

It had to shine forth.
It would shine forth.
It did shine forth.

The Writer Rose.
The Flesh-Word burst forth, Spirit-pen in hand,
and now, with open and soft hearts to write on, began to write.

He wrote on hearts of strong and simple men.
Salt of the earth men.
Wise men, scribes, and fishermen.
Hearts that had touched the Word made flesh. Had heard him speak, seen him heal, suffer, cry and die. And had seen him rise again.

The writer wrote on these open hearts. They wrote on other hearts, and the writing would not stop.

Kings, armies, emperors, and false brethren walked across the page with muddy, bloody boots.

But the writing would not stop.
Across empires and continents.
Through the years, through the centuries.
Those soft and open hearts have written on hearts that have written on your heart.
Don’t let the writing stop.
The paper is already on fire. The fire is spreading fast. Write. On one page at a time, one heart at a time.
Write with pen, paintbrush, computer, crayon.
Don’t let the writing stop. No matter who walks across the page.
Or across your heart.

Don’t stop writing.