On my road to Damascus I had worshiped another god.
Persecuting the Lord Which separated me from a Love.
The long hot dusty roads I traveled only to seek another fix–I lied, I stole and I cheated altogether in self-satisfaction.
But now in a Holy moment, I was blinded by a pain too great that my loneliness could not be reckoned with.
At this instant, my sight was shaded by something greater than I.
The sounds around me hastens my senses, “Who is there?” I cry.
And then, the tender touch of a hand guides me as He whispers.
I go.
For I was blind and now I see.
A dusty road I walk, led by His eyes.
The eyes of His surrender. The tender touch of His hand.
God is not dead nor does He sleep.
Beautifully Awkward
Her Broken wing 