“It is not as important how we start (our past), but how we finish .” - Joyce Meyer All alone and far from home, she was polluted in her own blood Her pain was so deep that her cries made no sound For they were buried in the pit of despair As she strugled and squirmed whilst gasping for air For she had been cocooned in so many lies rumours and tales From the poisonous tongues of wicked creatures like like beasts with tails Battered and beaten, she lay in a flowerbed in a green garden slowly decaying but in her heart she was praying So the Lord sprinted towards her in the cool of the day, "a bloody pool? hell has to pay" He muttered to himself as more blood sprinkled like a fountain Or an overactive, violent, erupting volcanic mountain He said unto her when she was in her own blood, "Live" Again he said unto her when she was dying, "Live" Tears streamed down his face and slowly but surely washed away her doubt as her faith wavered Unto his gentle and peaceful heart, her own aching heart did yield Gradually, she began to multiply as the... (read more)

Who would have thought a barren womb could bear life? Who would have thought that Lazarus could come back to life? Who would have thought  dry bones could produce blood that holds life? Who would have thought that the Spirit would descend from above and restore broken lives with fiery love?