Normally I cry in church,
Feel the Spirit movin’,
Breathin’ through the walls
Like the building itself is alive.
But this time,
Only two tears fell—
Not from glory,
But from the weight inside my chest
That finally broke through.
They misunderstand “church.”
Think it’s just a building,
Not the body—
Not the ones meant to breathe Christ’s name
In and out like lungs.
His house is supposed to be worship,
His people supposed to carry His will,
But the wounds run deeper
Than stained glass can ever show.
If Heaven is His throne
And Earth His footstool,
Where does He rest His feet
When the floorboards are infected?
Poisoned by pastors—
Pastors who hide their sins,
Pastors who love their pride,
Pastors who let pride love them back.
They infected one toe,
But the whole body screams,
The whole body shakes,
Beggin’ for relief
From the rot they let spread,
From the lies they stitched into sermons
Like poisoned threads.
This building is His house—
Where we crawl for healing,
For salvation,
For wisdom and water
To wash us clean.
But if we can’t find any of that
Inside His doors,
Where do the broken wanderers go?
Where do the hungry kneel
When the table’s been flipped
By hands meant to feed?
They locked up the gifts I gave—
Chains on what was meant to flow free,
Just to keep control
Over the flock I trusted them with.
Because of their wickedness,
Their names are gone from My book.
They’ll call to Me,
But I won’t hear—
Just like they ignored the lamb
Crying out in pain.
I chose them
‘Cause their hearts were once after Mine,
But they twisted My homes into shadows,
Secrets dripping down the walls,
Sins forced onto young men and women
Who never asked for darkness.
And the cries they silenced
Still echo like ghosts
In every hallway they preached in.
Instead of My voice,
They chased the flesh,
Ran after other gods
With blessings I placed in their hands.
But now—
Now the field is ready.
It’s time for laborers to step in:
The ones who watched quietly,
The ones who sought truth,
The ones who waited in the dark
For My call.
The Lord of the harvest
Sends them out.
This generation—
I’m raising them Myself.
They’ll know how to reach,
How to lead,
How to be led.
And I’ll guide them
Straight into the world-sized harvest
That’s been waiting for them
Since the first tear hit the ground,
Since the first saint prayed for change,
Since the first voice whispered,
“Send me.”
SonofAdam
