You cling to truth wrapped tight. It covers your eyes, squeezes your breath. Your truth a bunker, no light to dance or welcome.
You can have your truth. And I my own. With its stories told so detailed I believe them all.
But there is only one.
Its author is the One who sees all. Whose eyes gaze endless over time and distance. My view is limited to where I sit. My stories glazed with here and now.
His truth does not bind, or hug so fierce it hurts. His truth flows, a fragrant summer wind that lights my heart. Hunger sweet, passion sparked.
His truth is the one to seek, and there is no story to unravel.
When my truth mirrors his, chains loosen, horizon widens, the breeze blows sweet and gentle. Scars turn silver, numb
That is how you know.
Let the knife of painful truth sink deep, let it do its work, and find a way to trust, for painful truth is still better than a beautiful lie.
Truth wounds heal, clean and tight with scars that sing.
Lies rip flesh rough and smash hearts beat. Lies heal with ragged scars, that no finger wants to trace. That don’t lift eyes to Heaven.
You can have your truth, and I my own.
This rests easy as I hunt for a fragrant breeze. A breeze that lifts my head and calls me closer.
And I know that this day, is the one He made, what choice have I but to rejoice?
For that is how you know.