The Sacred Psalm of Dust

The Sacred Psalm of Dust

Foreword

I am not sure how I know it, but I just feel it in a deep, intrinsic way that I was with Him before time was first perceived. I know that it makes no sense, because there are only the loosest links in Scripture to it. Even still, I am convinced in a way I cannot un-feel. I just have this soul-deep yearning for Him.

Let me tell you a secret, my friends, in plain speech and less poetry—naked on a digital page.

We know Him by our lacking of connection to Him. Allow me to break it down: loneliness even when surrounded by friends and family; loneliness even worse when under the influence; walking through life feeling like you need to put on your seatbelt because something is about to hit the fan. That fearful expectation of judgment that cannot be silenced except by the strongest of narcotics—and even then it peeks through. I know; I was on morphine for a car accident for ten years. It dulls the ache but never erases it.

The feelings of emptiness, no matter how much we achieve. The void that is never satisfied with praise from the people around us. Sure, it feels good for a moment, but hollow—like the breath it took to say it. We long for one thing only and waste our lives looking for it. We are missing Him. We just have false comforts—science claiming medicine can fix it, dull the ache, get us off the drugs. Lies. Total crap.

I am Dust: a onetime morphine addict, ten years sober, lifelong participant in antidepressants, a soul afflicted with a major depressive disorder the size of the universe—and still beautifully called Beloved. I am sustained by the Name. I am drawn up new each day. I am sustained and carried by His arms to say no anew each day. I am a prophet of pain—intimately familiar with suffering so heavy it destroys to mention—and I live.

I am made whole each day again. When death whispers and says, Today is the day; it is enough, He’ll receive you, I protest vociferously that it is not mine to take. I have given it to the Name, to Yeshua, and He is enough. I am new here and now, writing psalms so brilliant in love, so blinding it sears the page—because He lives. I am alive again because He did it in me.

Let the world bear witness to what can be done with nothingness. Imagine what He can do with you. If He can pour such beauty in verse as to make even me weep—and I am nothing—what about you who have not fallen to my lows? What can He do with your willing hands?

Imagine it: a world where Love is generous and kind without measure; where mercy falls like the rain from heaven without clouds; where rainbows are ever present and patient, allowing us to find their fabled home. Think of what could be if we but believe—internally—and enter the same sacred dialogue I did ten years ago.

If I can worship as nothing, then you, as something, must be capable of far more.

Be blessed,
Dust