Thankful for the Vision
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 from 9 to 5 in prisons
They can eat caviar on Monday and crust on Tuesday
They wouldn’t even notice
They know the meaning of matrix, the way the West was won
They are mobile like the wind,
They belong to the nations, they need no passports
People write their addresses in pencil and wonder at the strange existence
They are free, yet they are slaves to the hurting, dirty 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 loose
That they might one day win the great well done, faithful sons and daughters
Such heroes are as radical on Sunday morning as on Sunday night
They don’t need fame or name instead they breath quietly upward
And hear the crowds chanting again, again 'Come on!'
This is the sound of the underground
The whisper of history in the making
Foundations shaking
Revolutionaries dreaming once again
Mystery esteeming in whispers, conspiracy is breathing
This is the sound of the underground
And the army is disciplined
Young people who beat their bodies into submission
Every soldier would take a bullet for his comrade at arms
A tattoo on a the 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 to succeed?
Can fear scare them or death kill them?
Oh in the generation who prays like a dying man with groans beyond talking
With warrior cries, sulfuric tears and with great barrel loads of laughter
Waiting watching, 24/7, 365, whatever it takes they will give
Breaking rules, shaking mediocrity from its cozy little hide
Laying down their rights and their precious little wrongs
Laughing at labels and fasting essentials
The advertisers cannot mold them
Hollywood cannot hold them
Peer pressure is powerless to secular resolve at late-night parties
Before the cock crows
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
When they surrender their image or their popularity
they would lay down their very lives
And swap seats with the man on death row guilty as hell
A throne for the electric chair with blood and sweat and many tears
Sleepless nights, fruitless days, they pray as if it all depends on God
They live as if it all depends on them
Their DNA chooses Jesus; He breathes out, they breath in
Their subconscious sings
They had a blood transfusion with Jesus
Their words make demons scream in shopping centers
Don’t you here them coming?
Harold the weirdo’s, summon the losers and the freaks
Here come the frightened and the forgotten with fire in their eyes
They walk tall, trees applaud, skyscrapers bow
Mountains are dwarfed by these children from another dimension
Their prayers summon the hounds of heaven and evoke the ancient dream of Eden
And this vision will be. It will come to pass.
It will come easy and it will come soon
How do I know?
Because this is the longing of creation itself
The groaning of the Spirit and the very dream of God
My tomorrow is his today
My distant hope is his 3D
My feeble whisper and faithless prayer evokes a
thunderous, resounding, bone-shaking, great AMEN
From countless angels, heroes of the faith and Christ himself
And He is the original dreamer, the ultimate winner.
Guaranteed.
Attributed to Jake Hamilton's New Song (Worshipping Warriors)
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