Capable of doubt and belief, tears and song. Out of my mouth comes a joyful noise, and from my lips fall words of death. I build up, break down. Encourage, complain. Stumble, rise. Sit, dance. I wait, I leap forward. Kiss, and push away. Love, and hate. Speak truth, and deny. I am smitten and jealous. Oh how simple, predictable, and readable I am. Oh how complex I am, a puzzle. I'm sharp, observant. Oblivious, blind. I dream too high, too quick, soaring on clouds. Yet I give up hastily, faster than a pricked balloon. I express, hope, laugh. Lie, spit, cheat. My responses are frank, I answer with denial. A hypocrite, fully sincere.
Light and darkness, interwoven. Dust breathed. Flickers on the wall. Crowned with glory, lower than the angels. Depraved, good.
Paradox at the surface,
but then again,
aren't we made of night?
Who is man?
That you would consider him. For we are fallen. Our history is a pool of blood, hatred, and even our acts of good are demented. We are such power, capable of falling so low. We are the definition of weakness. Our bones are lined with doubt, our blood flowing with evil and love.
We are fallen.
And when God makes us new? We will be more glorious than we can imagine.
More glorious,
because of his glory shining in our eyes.
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