What Do I Know of Holy?

What Do I Know of Holy? ~ Addison Road

I made You promises a thousand times
I tried to hear from Heaven
But I talked the whole time
I think I made You too small
I never feared You at all, no...
If You touched my face would I know You?
Looked into my eyes could I behold You?

What do I know of You
Who spoke me into motion?
Where have I even stood
But the shore along Your ocean?
Are You fire? Are You fury?
Are You sacred? Are You beautiful?
What do I know? What do I know of Holy?

I guess I thought that I had figured You out
I knew all the stories and I learned to talk about
How You were mighty to save
Those were only empty words on a page
Then I caught a glimpse of who You might be
The slightest hint of You brought me down to my knees

What do I know of Holy?
What do I know of wounds that will heal my shame?
And a God who gave life "its" name?
What do I know of Holy?
Of the One who the angels praise?
All creation knows Your name
On earth and heaven above
What do I know of this love?

Sound of the Underground

At this point - I'm not even sure where I found this.  I saved  this from years ago and recently ran across it.  This is my heart, this is my passion - this is what this generation can achieve!


So this guy comes up to me and says, "What's the vision? What's the big idea?" I open my mouth and words come out like this.

The vision? The vision is Jesus - obsessively, dangerously, undeniably Jesus. The vision is an army of young people. You see bones? I see an army. And they are free from materialism. They laugh at 9-5 little prisons. They could eat caviar on Monday and crusts on Tuesday. They wouldn't even notice. They know the meaning of the matrix and the way the west was won. They are mobile like the wind, they belong to the nations. They need no passport. People write their addresses in pencil and wonder at their strange existence. They are free, yet they are slaves of the hurting and dirty and dying. 


What is the vision? The vision is holiness that hurts the eyes. It makes children laugh and adults angry. It gave up the game of minimum integrity long ago to reach for the stars. It scorns the good and strains for the best. It is dangerously pure. Light flickers from every secret motive, every private conversation. It loves people away from their suicide leaps, their satan games. This is an army that will lay down its life for the cause. A million times a day its soldiers choose to loose that they might one day gain the great "well done" of faithful sons and daughters. Such heroes are as radical on Monday morning as Sunday night. They don't need fame from names. Instead they grin quietly upwards and hear the crowds chant again and again: "come on!!" 


And this is the sound of the underground, the whisper of history in the making, foundations shaking, revolutionaries dreaming once again. Mystery is scheming in whispers, conspiracy is breaking, this is the sound of the underground.And the army is disciplined. Young people who beat their bodies into submission. Every soldier would take a bullet for his comrade at arms. The tattoo on their backs boasts "For me to live is Christ and to die is gain." Sacrifice fuels the fire of victory in their upward eyes. Winners, martyrs. Who can stop them? Can failure succeed? Can fear scare them or death kill them? 


And the generation prays like a dying man with grouns beyond talking, with warrior cries, sulphuric tears and with great barrow loads of laughter! Waiting. Watching. 24/7/365. Whatever it takes they will give. Breaking the rules. Shaking meiocrity from its labels, fasting essentials. The advertisers cannot mold them. Hollywood cannot hold them. Peer pressure is powerless to take their resolve at late night partiers before the cockrel cries. They are incredibly cool, dangerously attractive inside. On the outside? They hardly care. They wear clothes like costumes to communicate and celebrate but never to hide. Would they surrender their image or their popularity? They would lay down their very lives, swap seats with the man on death row, guilty as hell. A throne for an electric chair. With blood and sweat and many tears, with sleepless nights and fruitless days, they pray as if it all depends on God and live as if it all depends on them. 


Their DNA chooses Jesus. He breathes out, they breathe in. Their subconscious sings. They had a blood transfusion with Jesus. Don't you hear them coming? Herald the weirdos! Summon the losers and the freaks. Here come the frightened and forgotten with fire in their eyes. They walk tall and tress applaud, skyscrapers bow, mountains are dwarfed by these children of another dimension. Their prayers summon the hounds of heaven and invoke the ancient dream of Eden. And this vision will be. It will come to pass; it will come easily; it will come soon. How do I know? Because this is the longing of creation itself, the groaning of the spirit, the very dream of God. My tomorrow is His today. My distant hope is his 3-D. And my feeble, whispered, faithless prayer invokes a thunderous, resounding, bone shaking great "Amen!" from countless angels, from heroes of the faith, from Christ Himself. And He is the original dreamer, the ultimate winner.