Presume a practical and realistic supernatural salvation will help us.

Our knees are cracked and wounded, we beseech a higher comfort.

We struggle to keep up, our feet feel like stones and our hands are overworked.

A scream of anguish yields across the desert, yet liberation is nowhere to be found.

The image of possibilities is distorted and pale like a ghost in the midst.

A carefree smile of a collegiate pursuit, we are caught between centuries lost and never to be found.

Two thousand years of waiting for the Massiah and we are still persistent as hell.

No gut, no glory