Tuesday, December 8, 2009
The author of this powerful poem is unknown. It was found scribbled on a wall in an abandoned London warehouse where a group of young people had been meeting for countless days, engaged in 24 hour prayer. I first read it in 2001 while at school as a part of a powerful movement of future military leaders engaged in prayer. God moved in mighty ways during that time. I’ve had a copy of it taped in the front cover of my Bible ever since and I cannot read it without feeling revived with passion for the coming Kingdom of God and the pleasure I have for joining Him in His work.
The vision is JESUS – obsessively, dangerously, undeniably Jesus.
The vision is an army of young people.
You see bones? I see an army.
And they are FREE from materialism.
They laugh at 9-5 little prisons.
They could eat caviar on Monday and crusts on Tuesday.
They wouldn’t even notice.
They know the meaning of the Matrix, the ay the West was won.
They are mobile like the wind, they belong to the nations.
They need no passport.
People write their addresses in pencil and wonder at their strange existence.
They are free yet they are slaves of the hurting and the dying.
What is the vision?
The vision is holiness that hurts the eyes.
It makes children laugh and adults angry.
It gave up the game of minimum integrity long ago to reach for the stars.
It scorns the good and strains for the best.
It is dangerously pure.
Light flickers from every secret motive, every private conversation.
It loves people away from their suicide leaps, their Satan games.
This is an army that will lay down its life for the cause.
A million times a day its soldiers choose to lose that they might one day win the great “Well done”
Of faithful sons and daughters.
Such heroes are as radical on Monday morning as Sunday night.
They don’t need fame from names.
Instead they grin quietly upwards and hear the crowds chanting again and again: “COME ON!”
And this is the sound of the underground
The whisper of history in the making
Revolutionaries dreaming once again
Mystery is scheming in whispers
Conspiracy is breathing. . . . . . . . .
And the army is discipl[in]ed.
Young people who beat their bodies into submission.
Every soldier would take a bullet for his comrade at arms.
The tattoo on their back boasts “for me to live is Christ and to die is gain.”
Sacrifice fuels the fire of victory in their upward eyes
Winners. Martyrs. Who can stop them?
Can hormones hold them back?
Can failure succeed?
Can fear scare them or death kill them?
And the generation prays like a dying man with groans beyond talking,
With warrior cries, sulfuric tears and with great barrow loads of laughter!
Waiting: 24 – 7 – 365.
Whatever it takes they will give: Breaking the rules.
Shaking mediocrity from its cozy little hide.
Laying down their rights and their precious little wrongs, laughing at labels, fasting essentials.
The advertisers cannot mold them.
Hollywood cannot hold them.
Peer-pressure is powerless to shake their resolve at late night parties before the cockerel cries.
They are incredibly cool, dangerously attractive inside.
On the outside? They hardly care.
They wear clothes like costumes to communicate and celebrate but never to hide.
Would they surrender their image or their popularity?
They would lay down their very lives – swap seat with the man on death row – guilty as hell.
A throne for an electric chair.
With blood and sweat and many tears, with sleepless nights and fruitless days,
The pray as if it all depends on God and live as if it all depends on them.
Their DNA chooses JESUS.
(He breathes out, they breathe in.)
Their subconscious sings.
They had a blood transfusion with Jesus.
Their words make demons scream in shopping centers.
Don’t hear them coming?
Herald the weirdos!
Summon the losers and freaks.
Here comes the frightened and forgotten with fire in their eyes.
They walk tall and trees applaud, skyscrapers bow, mountains are dwarfed
By these children of another dimension.
Their prayers summon the hounds of heaven and invoke the ancient dreams of Eden.
And this vision will be.
It will come to pass; it will come easily; it will come soon.
How do I know?
Because this is the longing of creation itself, the groaning of the Spirit, the very dream of God.
My tomorrow is His today.
My distant hope is His 3D.
And my feeble, whispered, faithless prayer invokes a
Thunderous, resounding, bone-shaking great “Amen!” from countless angels, from heroes of the faith, from Christ Himself.
And He is the original dreamer, the ultimate winner.