Running where I used to walk,
Through abstract problems compromised,
With countless tactile fractures that,
Lay out a garden path to the very heart of things.

By whose stripes are we healed?
To whom have we been delivered?
I am dead to my cruel master,
For glory my redeemer lives!

It is the Christ, Jesus,
By His scars I am made whole,
By His blood I know peace with God,
And I have been delivered to righteousness.

Muddy puddle,
Sits still a little to the left,
I see you clear as day,
And all your sharpest highlights and dullest reflections,
Yet are you truly holes and lightning?
Ephemeral as the fleeting moment,
Turning at the slightest inspection to something sharper than a blade,
And the untouched knowledge is left scattered on the wind,
Muddy water obscuring is itself obscured and its writhing lighting fields wrapped in a cloak of macro muddling.