Let All My Life, Tell of Who You Are

"A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within you."

[zaidammari]

The Prayer Hidden in Heartbreak

God,

sometimes

the breaking

is not punishment.

Sometimes

it is mercy

arriving violently enough

to interrupt the illusion.

Because there are seasons

where I mistake longing

for truth.

Where I call attachment

devotion.

Where I chase doors

You never opened

simply because

my emotions learned

how to knock loudly.

And still...

You let me wander

long enough

to discover

how exhausting it is

to build altars

around things

that cannot save me.

So when the heart breaks,

it does not always mean

something sacred

was destroyed.

Sometimes it means

something false

could no longer survive

the light.

And that hurts.

Because clarity

rarely arrives softly.

It tears through expectation.

It humbles the ego.

It exposes how often

I wanted comfort

more than truth.

But now I understand:

a shattered lens

cannot guide a soul.

So sometimes

You allow the ache

not to end me...

but to correct

what I’ve been seeing.

To show me

how easily affection

becomes identity.

How easily desire

becomes direction.

How easily loneliness

convinces the heart

to settle

for almost.

And still, God ...

You remain patient.

Not standing far away

with folded arms,

but near.

Close enough

to gather

every broken piece

I thought disqualified me

from being loved.

Because You never loved me

for my perfection.

You loved me

while I was still confusing

temporary things

for eternal ones.

You loved me

before clarity.

Before wisdom.

Before surrender.

And maybe that is

the deepest miracle of all:

that while the world teaches us

love must be earned,

You climb onto a cross

and say otherwise 🙏🏻.

Not because we were whole.

Not because we understood.

Not because we chose correctly

every time.

But because Your love

was never built

on our ability

to stop failing.

Only on Your willingness

to keep reaching.

So now when my heart breaks,

I pray differently.

Not:

“God, remove the pain.”

But:

“God, let the pain

restore my sight.”

Teach me

to stop worshipping

what cannot love me back

the way You do.

Teach me

that peace

is holier

than obsession.

That clarity

is kinder

than fantasy.

That being denied

what I wanted

has sometimes been

the greatest protection

of my life.

And if my vision

must sometimes be corrected

through disappointment,

then let me trust

the hands doing the healing.

Because a heart

that has never broken

may never fully understand

its need for grace.

But a heart

brought honestly

before You...

open, humbled, surrendered...

can finally begin

to see.

Not just the world

more clearly.

But You.

And perhaps that is why

some prayers

arrive disguised

as heartbreak.

because sometimes

the only way

to save a soul from illusion

is to let the heart crack

wide enough

for your truth

to enter.

[zaidammari]

The Prayer Hidden in Heartbreak

God,

sometimes

the breaking

is not punishment.

Sometimes

it is mercy

arriving violently enough

to interrupt the illusion.

Because there are seasons

where I mistake longing

for truth.

Where I call attachment

devotion.

Where I chase doors

You never opened

simply because

my emotions learned

how to knock loudly.

And still...

You let me wander

long enough

to discover

how exhausting it is

to build altars

around things

that cannot save me.

So when the heart breaks,

it does not always mean

something sacred

was destroyed.

Sometimes it means

something false

could no longer survive

the light.

And that hurts.

Because clarity

rarely arrives softly.

It tears through expectation.

It humbles the ego.

It exposes how often

I wanted comfort

more than truth.

But now I understand:

a shattered lens

cannot guide a soul.

So sometimes

You allow the ache

not to end me...

but to correct

what I’ve been seeing.

To show me

how easily affection

becomes identity.

How easily desire

becomes direction.

How easily loneliness

convinces the heart

to settle

for almost.

And still, God ...

You remain patient.

Not standing far away

with folded arms,

but near.

Close enough

to gather

every broken piece

I thought disqualified me

from being loved.

Because You never loved me

for my perfection.

You loved me

while I was still confusing

temporary things

for eternal ones.

You loved me

before clarity.

Before wisdom.

Before surrender.

And maybe that is

the deepest miracle of all:

that while the world teaches us

love must be earned,

You climb onto a cross

and say otherwise 🙏🏻.

Not because we were whole.

Not because we understood.

Not because we chose correctly

every time.

But because Your love

was never built

on our ability

to stop failing.

Only on Your willingness

to keep reaching.

So now when my heart breaks,

I pray differently.

Not:

“God, remove the pain.”

But:

“God, let the pain

restore my sight.”

Teach me

to stop worshipping

what cannot love me back

the way You do.

Teach me

that peace

is holier

than obsession.

That clarity

is kinder

than fantasy.

That being denied

what I wanted

has sometimes been

the greatest protection

of my life.

And if my vision

must sometimes be corrected

through disappointment,

then let me trust

the hands doing the healing.

Because a heart

that has never broken

may never fully understand

its need for grace.

But a heart

brought honestly

before You...

open, humbled, surrendered...

can finally begin

to see.

Not just the world

more clearly.

But You.

And perhaps that is why

some prayers

arrive disguised

as heartbreak.

because sometimes

the only way

to save a soul from illusion

is to let the heart crack

wide enough

for your truth

to enter.

[zaidammari]

Where the Road Keeps Its Secret

God,

I did not expect

one evening

to carry so much weather.

Rain on the windshield.

The kind that softens distance

until every passing light

looks borrowed,

brief,

almost holy.

She stepped into the car

smiling,

as though time itself

had set something gentle down

before either of us spoke.

And for a while,

everything, once more,

came easily.

Another table.

Shared plates.

A little laughter.

The quiet surprise

of finding that comfort

does not always vanish

simply because years

have learned new names.

Outside,

the streets shimmered -

lamplight trembling,

crosswalks gleaming,

the soft rhythm

of two people

moving carefully

through an evening

too spontaneous to name.

Nothing forced.

Nothing rehearsed.

Only moments arriving

one beside another,

as if the night already knew

that some stories return softly

because anything louder

would break them.

From Asian fusion,

to rooms of illusion -

mirrors bending shape,

light folding strangely,

visions asking without words

whether what appears before us

is ever all that remains.

And perhaps that is why

I kept wondering quietly:

What becomes of tenderness

when life has already decided

this feeling alone

cannot choose direction?

Because some things

still arrive beautifully

without becoming possible.

Some nearness

still reaches inward

while tomorrow waits -

patient,

unchanged,

honest.

The evening kept moving.

Another room.

Another drink.

Her voice softer now,

the hours resting lightly

between us.

Then home.

A slower hush.

A room dim enough

for memory

to stand beside the present

without either one

asking the other

to leave.

And there, God,

I understood

how quietly the heart

recognizes warmth

before thought

finds language.

Because sometimes

touch speaks first.

A hand resting.

A breath pausing.

A heartbeat,

loud enough

for another soul

to hear peace inside it.

And for one borrowed night,

the world asked nothing.

Not where this belonged.

Not what it meant.

Not what morning

would ask us to call it.

It simply allowed

two lives

to rest inside one small shelter

while rain gave way

to dawn.

And it arrived -

as dawn always does,

without argument,

without delay,

gathering light

at the edge of goodbye.

One last kiss.

Then the quiet sound

of leaving -

driving away,

placing everything gently

back into motion.

An impromptu evening

that taught me:

Some meetings

do not reopen the past.

They reveal

what still lives quietly

beneath it.

Not to promise.

Not to persuade.

Not even to remain.

Only to remind.

That the heart

can still open

without asking to possess.

That ache

and peace

sometimes sit so close

they borrow

each other’s name.

That not every light

is given

to lead us home -

some appear briefly

along the road,

just long enough

to show us

what still glows

when night is honest.

So this too

becomes prayer:

Thank You

for moments

too brief to keep

yet too true

to deny.

For warmth

that asked for nothing

but presence.

For tenderness

that arrived

without asking tomorrow

to explain itself.

For the mercy

of knowing

that something beautiful

can still touch a life

without asking

to stay.

Bless her road.

Bless mine.

And if memory returns,

let it return kindly -

like rain on glass,

like distant music,

like one final smile

that speaks without sound,

a nod of the heart

that says everything

and nothing at all.

Like two lives

meeting just long enough

to leave a little light

where something once

had gone dim.

Because some roads

do not end in arrival -

only in learning

which light

was real.

🌹.

[zaidammari]

The Light Along the Road

God,

Nothing happened…

and yet,

something remained.

No continuity.

No crossing of words.

No reason

for the mind

to return

to the same quiet place.

And still…

that light

came to mind.

Not suddenly.

Not heavily.

More like evening light

finding a corner

it has softly touched before…

The first time

You returned this story to me,

it came as peace after history.

A table.

Two chairs.

Fourteen years sitting down

without asking

to be undone.

Just two people

meeting where life

had carried them,

discovering

that old tenderness

could survive

without demanding anything.

Then came wonder.

Winter roads.

Mountain light.

Bread broken.

Music on the highway.

Snow along the shoulders of peaks.

A ski trail

Serendipity,

as if the landscape

agreed

that some meetings

arrive

already carrying

their own meaning.

And now…

this?

Not presence,

not distance,

but something quieter:

a void after awakening.

As if a room

briefly lit

has gone dim again,

yet the eyes

still remember

where the light had been.

The day moved normally.

Measured hours.

Small requests.

I answered them.

But beneath all of it

something else remained…

A quiet awareness

that some encounters

do not depart

when the moment ends.

They linger.

Like warmth

left in a chair.

Like a song

that finishes

yet keeps sounding

somewhere inwardly.

And night, God—

the night always reveals

what daylight

can politely conceal.

Daylight

keeps the hands busy.

Darkness

returns the soul

to itself.

And there,

between silence

and sleep,

I notice

how certain people

continue speaking

even when

nothing is being said.

Not loudly.

Not urgently.

Only gently…

like distant music

through another room,

too soft to follow,

too clear

to ignore.

Those mountains

left something with me too:

Snow appears still

until spring arrives

and tells the truth…

water was moving

all along.

Perhaps hearts

are built that way.

What appears quiet

is not always empty.

Sometimes

it is simply depth

with nowhere

it needs to announce itself.

Still, I confess:

there are moments

I look toward the small glowing screen

as though certainty

might arrive there.

But nothing comes.

Only breath, only the room,

only the slow understanding

that unanswered things

are not always hollow things.

And perhaps

that too

is mercy.

Not every rose

is meant

to be gathered.

Some bloom twice…

once in season,

once again

years later,

only long enough

to remind the traveler

that beauty returning

does not always mean

it was meant

to stay.

So tonight, God,

I leave this with You…

the silence,

the wondering,

the warmth

that lingers

without a place

to belong.

And again,

teach me to recognize

the lights You place along the way—

not to chase them,

not to name them

more than they are,

but to notice

how gently they appear,

how briefly they remain,

and how even passing light

can reveal

where I am standing—

uncovering

the shadows I carry…

without asking,

without needing

them to be gone.

Teach me gratitude

for what shines,

even when it does not stay—

as the sun,

bright and warm,

leaves for night,

cool and silent.

[zaidammari]

A Quiet Man

Why does a man go quiet,

When the world demands his riot?

Why does he walk with shadowed grace,

A calm unknown upon his face?

They call him distant, call him cold,

Guarded, hardened, hard to hold.

But silence is no lack of fire,

It’s prayer, it’s strength, it lifts him higher.

He trusted once with heart unbound,

Spoke truth aloud, let words resound.

But leaves can fall, and words can die,

And silence waits where echoes lie.

He smiles when needed, laughs when pressed,

Yet the storms within will not rest.

Not pride, not anger, not despair,

But knowing some hearts cannot bear.

He carries it, the grief, the strain,

Converting strength out of pain.

Like Jacob walking night’s long road,

Marked by trials, yet grace bestowed.

So he speaks less, not from defeat,

But from the wisdom pain makes sweet.

He rises, works, fulfills his role,

Yet guards the chambers of his soul.

Even Christ, when judged and tried,

Stood in silence, strong inside.

Not all truths need to be displayed,

Some hearts are healed when words give way.

Do not mistake a quiet man

For empty heart or broken plan.

Some fires burn low, yet never fade,

Some hearts speak deep where words evade.

God, teach me silence full of grace,

That lifts my soul in every place.

Let stillness rise, let prayers be heard,

In whispered breath, in silent word.

🙏🏻

[zaidammari]

The Rose Along the Road - Part 2

God,

I didn’t go looking for the past.

I simply opened my door.

My own kitchen.

My own table.

The quiet architecture

of the life You’ve been building in me.

And there she was.

Fifteen years later,

sitting gently inside a chapter

she had never seen before.

It felt almost surreal...

like two timelines

briefly touching,

like a familiar melody

drifting through rooms

that had never heard it.

Strange, yes.

But the good kind of strange.

The kind that reminds me

how mysteriously

You weave the roads of our lives.

I cooked.

Not as performance.

Not as affect.

Just a simple offering

To break bread between us...

food, laughter, warmth,

and the quiet realization

that life had carried us far

yet somehow

not completely apart.

Later,

we left the city behind.

Headlights cutting through the dark

as the road climbed slowly upward,

music filling the car

like a traveling companion,

each song another thread

stitching the miles together.

The mountains received us

without announcement.

Snow rested on the shoulders of peaks.

Silence wide enough

to hold every unspoken thought.

Sunlight arrived

with the brightness only winter knows.

We rode the lifts upward

toward the spine of the continent,

the Continental Divide

stretching beneath our skis

like a quiet declaration

that even the earth itself

is shaped by separation and flow.

And then...

a trail sign appeared:

Serendipity.

Of all the names

a ski trail could choose.

I laughed at the irony underneath my mask

while carving long turns

down the open face,

snow rising around us

like small clouds of blessing.

Because sometimes

life doesn’t whisper its meanings.

Sometimes

it writes them plainly

across the landscape.

Serendipity.

A meeting not forced.

Not planned.

Simply allowed.

She grew quiet later,

the altitude working gently on her,

sleep arriving in soft waves

as thoughts drifted somewhere

between mountain air

and the long roads of memory.

And I watched that quiet moment

with gratitude.

Because even rest

can feel sacred

when shared in peace.

And then...

the return,

roads unwinding back toward the city

like a ribbon being slowly gathered.

At the end,

there was a kiss goodbye.

Simple.

Soft.

A punctuation mark

placed gently

at the end of a beautiful sentence.

No confusion.

No reaching for something

that wasn’t being offered.

Just acknowledgment—

that two souls

who once walked closely together

had been allowed

to meet again

not to restart the story,

but to bless the chapters

we now live.

And so again I say,

God,

Thank You.

For evenings that feel surreal

yet perfectly placed.

For mountains that mirror the soul.

For trails named Serendipity.

For laughter that survives time.

For rest.

For music.

For the strange grace

of seeing someone from the past

walk calmly through the present

without disturbing its peace.

Bless her road.

Bless mine.

And keep teaching me

what You showed me again this weekend—

that life is not about returning

to old destinations,

but about recognizing

the roses You place

along the road.

Even the ones

that bloom twice 🌹🌹.

🙏🏻

[zaidammari]

I Am Tired...

Most men learn strength

like it’s survival.

Back against the wall.

Jaw tight.

Heart locked.

We don’t get lullabies.

We get commands.

“Be strong.”

“Hold it down.”

“Don’t let them see you break.”

So I marched on with those orders.

Eldest son.

Firstborn fire baptized in responsibility.

I became the pillar before I became a man.

The roof before I became the rest.

This last year?

Trial.

Tribulation.

The kind that presses oil from olives.

The kind that turns prayers into cries too deep for words.

It felt like Job without answers.

Like Peter in the storm...

trying to walk on water

while the wind whispered,

“You’re going to drown.”

But I didn’t drown.

Because even when I couldn’t see Him -

Christ was standing on the waves.

I became the one who holds it together.

The strong one.

The calm one.

The “I got it” one.

I carried it quietly.

Bills.

Worry.

Expectations.

Unspoken fear sitting heavy in my chest like Goliath daring me to blink.

But my eyes remained in full focus.

Because that’s what strong sons do, right?

We fight giants in private.

We silence storms in our own souls

so the house can sleep in peace.

But here’s what nobody tells you...

Even David cried.

Even Peter sank.

Even Jesus sweat blood in the garden.

Let that sit.

The Son of God

fell to His knees in Gethsemane

and said,

“If it be possible”

Strength

is not the absence of trembling.

Strength

is kneeling anyway.

My mother sees her strong son.

But she also sees

the child God formed before the pressure.

I am now learning that,

I don’t have to be the soldier.

I don’t have to be the protector.

I don’t have to hold up the house like Samson bracing pillars.

I can just say...

“I am tired.”

And the world doesn’t end.

Because here’s the truth that broke my pride:

I am not the Savior.

The cross is already occupied.

Nails were already driven.

Blood was already poured.

The veil was already torn.

I don’t have to bleed to prove I love my family.

Christ already did.

And when He said,

“It is finished,”

He meant the part where I try to take

His place.

So yes...

I am strong.

But my strength is borrowed.

Given.

Gifted.

It flows from empty tomb mornings

and mercy that shows up new every sunrise.

That kind of safety matters.

That kind of love does not weaken a man.

It reminds him

he can take off the armor.

It reminds him

he can unclench his fists.

It reminds him

that even the eldest son

is still

a son.

And sons

don’t have to save the world.

They just have to trust

the One who already did.

So Jesus…

When my shoulders forget

that You already carried the beam,

slow me down.

When I start mistaking pressure for purpose,

remind me

that You were crushed

so I don’t have to be.

When I try to hold my family together

with bleeding hands,

show me Yours...

scarred, steady, sovereign.

Teach me the strength

that bows before it breaks.

Teach me the courage

that cries without shame.

And when I am too tired to be the strong son,

I'll look to You, my strong Savior.

Because I am not the cross...

I am not the Christ.

I am just a son

learning how to rest,

in the shadow...

of an empty tomb.

🙏🏻

[zaidammari]

The Rose Along the Road

God,

I didn’t go looking for the past.

I went to dinner.

Just a table.

Two chairs.

Fourteen years stretched between -

like a quiet river,

carrying both sediment and light.

We didn’t try to be who we were.

We showed up as who life, in its gentle discipline, had made us -

weathered, widened,

bearing proof that time is not gentle,

but it is truthful,

and sometimes sacred.

Her life speaks now in early mornings,

in small hands reaching,

In motherly beauty,

in love that labors without clocking out.

Mine speaks in long roads,

in maps unfinished,

in questions that only make sense

once I start walking,

trusting you - God - as compass and companion.

And still… we laughed.

Like no years had passed.

Like joy remembers faster than pain.

Stories poured out, effortless.

Silence didn’t demand filling.

It felt earned,

as if the room itself bowed in witness.

That night wasn’t nostalgia.

It was perspective.

Because sometimes, you don’t bring someone back

to restart the story -

Sometimes, you bring them back

to underline the chapter I’m standing in,

to mark it with grace,

to remind me of mercy,

to teach me that presence itself is holy.

Later, driving her home,

the city softened.

Streetlights blinked -

winking witnesses

to the beauty of ordinary moments,

to lessons we carry without clinging.

And I said what I’d carried too long -

not as a plea,

not as a hope,

just as truth laid down,

like a small offering on the altar of memory:

I thought once

you were the one that got away.

Not to rewind.

Not to claim the future.

Just to consecrate the past,

to honor what was real,

before moving forward again.

Nothing broke.

No tension rose.

No future was mistaken for the past.

Only peace appeared -

the kind that blooms when honesty

needs no audience,

when grace has settled quietly in the heart.

I understood:

Life is not a loop.

It is a pilgrimage.

Not everyone you love

is meant to finish the walk with you.

Some people are signposts.

Some are mirrors.

Some are confirmations

that what we felt was real -

even if it wasn’t meant to last.

We parted clean.

No ache.

No hunger.

Two lives blessed,

not bound.

And so this is my prayer:

God,

Thank You for meetings that don’t confuse me,

for memories that don’t own me,

for love that taught me without trapping me.

Thank You for clarity without regret,

for closure that feels like gratitude,

for the grace to honor what was

without demanding it return.

Bless her road.

Bless mine.

Keep us walking forward,

not backward,

trusting that every intersection

served its purpose.

Teach me to recognize the lights you place along the way -

not to chase them,

but to notice where I am,

to see your fingerprints in ordinary streets,

to walk awake in your mercy,

to let every step be both question and answer.

🙏

[zaidammari]

Eternal ruler; Ever powerful

The happiness I now put on

Is just a mask that hides the pain.

A place where all my sadness drips

Like teardrops in the rain.

It puts away my longing heart

In a jar of old regret.

And turns my head to thinking

Of unsaid words I won't forget.

It tries to make me think

That I am better off alone.

And stretches out a broken heart

That’s only newly sewn ❤️‍🩹.

It fills my head with false delight

And tries to make it real.

But all the joy I had

Was in the way you made me feel.

The darkness of my past is lost

In all the times we shared.

The happiness I long for

Is from times when you had cared.

The memories you have left me

Can never be enough,

And the man you thought you knew

Isn’t really all that tough.

He goes to bed and sings away

The things that he liked the best.

Like the times that you and him

Layed on that couch to simply rest.

He cries away the comfort

That he found within your smile.

And rips up mental pictures

‘Til he’s buried in that pile.

And even though he hates the way

These thoughts make him sad.

You once made him feel wanted

And for that, he’s truly glad.

[zaidammari]

A Noble Man

What’s that which makes a man? The acts that prove him true?

The things he did once long ago or the things that he will do?

The time he shied away or when he laid it on the line?

The people who speak ill of him or those who think him fine?

The job he worked for money or his private time at home?

The tiny town he never left or the countries he did roam?

The foulest crime he ever did? His greatest act of love?

I grow older on this earth, learning that it is all of the above.

“There is nothing noble being superior to your fellow man; true nobility is being superior to your former self.”

[zaidammari]

By nature, I am a savage. By Grace, I am a servant.

[zaidammari]

Alone to Listen

I am the ear - perched, silent, waiting,

listening and used to confide in.

Her pain, funneled through me like a gateway - a passage to a graveyard she does not know exists.

I am the trusted lock, the key, and the vault.

Foreign is the sound of my own voice,

unless it pays homage to the gravestones that lay within me,

inscribed with epitaph's of my loved ones' worries.

When I speak, my voice cracks and wavers.

It only knows a frequency low enough to be misplaced in a sea of sorrows that are not my own.

So, I adapt in silence - envelop myself in the desolate quiet

waiting,

and waiting,

to finally be heard.

Hysterical, I may sound to a world growing inferior.

Prophetically.

Expressing feelings is absurdly profound,

in times as wild as these.

Insane

I already know,

A loveless generation with hearts of stone.

She rather share her womb before giving an ounce of her affection,

No time to care as her time is much too precious.

How naive of me...

her time, mind, and effort are the only things I am after. And maybe a smidge of humor cause all we need is laughter.

Hysterical, like I said to a word avoiding conversation.

We die to be understood, without being understanding.

As we become more selfish,

Everyone’s care for love begins to exit.

[zaidammari]

A genuine fast cleanses the body, mind and soul. It crucifies the flesh and to that extent, sets the soul free.

[zaidammari]

Disconcerted Heart

Why is my heart so deeply troubled with feelings of sadness and grief? My life seems to be without real turmoil or any pressing needs.

I feel so grieved inside with these weird feelings of giving up, It’s this sense of real hopelessness that has crowded out His love.

Release me my God, I ask of thee; I don't want to be this way, Fill me again with your Holy Spirit and deliver me, of this I pray.

May I again be filled with joy and remember your loving grace, May the spirit of heaviness over me be replaced with a garment of your praise.

I will rise to sing your praises and lift my hands to you, Declare aloud your faithfulness, for the wondrous works you do.

Go away, you father of iniquities, you no longer have a hold, For greater is He that is in me, the redeemer of my soul.

I will not give in to Satan's attacks, or allow him the chance to bind, For Christ has already set me free and released my troubled mind.

My hope shall always be in God, in Him alone will I trust, His joy again will flood my soul... 

And my heart will be filled with love.

[zaidammari]

I Pray

Give me the Love that leads the way. The Faith that nothing can dismay. The Hope no disappointments tire. The Passion that’ll burn like fire. Let me not sink to be a clod. Make me Thy fuel, Flame of God.

[zaidammari]

36:26

It's three in the morning and I'm teary eyed as I speak this love letter,

I'm afraid to be transparent because I thought I knew better,

I’m scared because I know I’ve been gone for a while,

I’m expecting to feel pain as I come to reconcile.

Christ, you are more loving than anyone I know-

You’ve forgiven me already, so I'm here to let go…

A confession; I'm a madman in session.

A tempest in progression making sin my profession.

My lies led me into a darkness and I was left alone.

And lust beat me with regret more dense than stone.

I let my pride come and light me on fire-

I let jealousy come and fill me with desire.

A sick dance with the devil, flames scorched my feet,

Fox-trot, waltz, a tango, a rumba, I was nailing every beat.

Fire engulfed up my body until it reached my heart.

No longer made of stone but flesh, truly a work of art.

A new heart confident as it has been forgiven,

This beautiful promise, in the book it was written.

A new heart filled with joy, hope and elation,

it knows that through Jesus, it has eternal salvation.

A new heart transplanted by the greatest physician.

Thank you Lord, for curing me of this sinful condition,

For the will to find a way beyond this black hole

Now my heart of flesh will beat loudly, to you, the deliverer of my soul.

[zaidammari]

A Concealed Weapon

An obscure beast that man has yet to tame

It gives thanks to the Lord but also curses His name

Through Adam & Eve it introduced sin to the world

Reckless, it pierces through anything, a double-edged sword

It storms our existence, creates an easy way to hell

It’s by its wrong use that even greats like Peter fell

Builds a bridge between good and evil in every human being

Quick to blurt out, it blurs what you're truly seeing

It has the power to speak life and to take it all away

The power to save souls and to lead them astray

It spearheads bad company and corrupts good morals

It first articulates sin and death soon follows

It strengthens relationships and ignites divorce

Mends the broken hearts and shows no remorse

It utters words that can bring a change to any situation

Holds back truths and thus leads to eternal damnation

To deaf ears and blind eyes it comes out as a friend

Cleverly disguised, a wrongful vision it will send

To slip on the pavement is a far better pain, 

Than the tongue that slips 'cause its trouble to gain