You are not this present life; it is not an indicator of the one to come, just over the ridge.
There is a glory-life atop the rock you’re climbing; do you sense the approach?
Look for it. Even now, a door, a door, you must go through.
Call it repentance, deliverance, whatever;
it is a shirking off the hoary mantle of flesh holding back your spirit.
Release the inner life, that handful of seeds sleeping in the pod.
Die first, you must kill the best in you and the worst.
What advantage was there anyway in this outer casing you call self?
Be crushed to pieces, every bit, and spirit-born into the true image, made of God.
You are not your husk, no matter how many work days you’ve invested.
You are the whisper of the fig that sings through the skin, Taste and see!
Feed the imperishable part within, that tiny seed of what you could be.
The body sown is not the body reaped—no, there will be a metamorphosis.
Watch trees of faith grow before your very eyes! Burst free from this body to rise
untethered as music; ignore the constant flesh lies of who you no longer want to be.
Those chapters are closed now, don’t read that book again.
Nothing holds you back, especially you, in your upward trajectory toward the call.
No separation now between what you were and are becoming, the Lover and a kingdom.