Post by Michael on Feb 27, 2005 23:35:43 GMT -5
Hey guys! This is something someone posted on my forum, The Harbor. There are some quotes from the thread on my forum and some quotes from an email I made from the thread. So here they are:
*more on next post...
QUOTE FROM EMAIL:
I read this on my forum, The Harbor. One of the members there had posted it and as I was reading it I thought that I should email it to ya'll. I don't understand some of the stuff so all of it might not be right, I don't know. But it sure got me thinking about it and it got me wanting to be a part of that army that is mentioned in the story. I want to be one of them and when ya'll read it, I'm possitive that it will strike that same desire in ya'll's hearts. Maybe it was just for me or that's just how it spoke to me but I think that ya'll will get something out of it. So just read it, please.
QUOTE FROM THREAD:
The vision is Jesus- obsessively, dangerously, undeniably Jesus. The vision is an army of young people. You see bones? I see an army. And they are FREE from materialism. They laugh at 9-5 little prisons. They could eat caviar on Monday and crust on Tuesday. They wouldn't even notice. They are mobile like the wind; they belong to the nations. They need no passport. People write their addresses in pencil and wonder at their strange existence. They are free yet they are slaves of the hurting and dirty and dying. What is the vision? The vision is holiness that hurts the eyes. It makes children laugh and adults angry. It gave up the game of minimum intergrity long ago to reach for the stars. It scorns the good and strains for the best. It is dangerously pure. Light flickers from every secret motive, every private conversation. It loves people away from their suicide leaps, their satan games. This is an army that will lay down its life for the cause. A million times a day its soldiers choose to lose that they might one day win the great 'Well done faithful sons and daughters'. Such heroes are as radical on Monday mornings as Sunday night. They don't need fame from names. Instead they grin quietly upwards and hear the crowds chanting again and again "COME ON!" And the army is disciplined. Young people who beat their bodies into submission. Every soldier would take a bullet for his comrade at arms. The tattoo on their bck boasts: to live is Christ and to die is gain. Sacrifice fuels the fire of victory in their upward eyes. Winners. Martyrs. Who can stop them? Can homones hold them back? Can failure succeed? Can fear scare them or death kill them? And the generation PRAYS like a dying man with groans beyond talking, with warrior cries, sulphurous tears and with great barrow loads of laughter! Whatever it takes they will give. Breaking the rules. Shaking the mediocrity from its cozy little hide. Laying down their rights and their precious little wrings, laughing at labels, fasting essentials. The advertisers cannot mould them. Hollywood cannot mould . Hollywood cannot hold them. Peer pressure is powerless to shake their resolve at late night parties before thethingyerel cries. They wear clothes like a costume to communicate and celebrate but never to hide. Would they surrender their image or popularity? They would lay down their very liver- swap seats with the man on death row- guilty as anything. A throne for an electric chair. With blood and sweat and many tears, with sleepless nights and fruitless days, they pray as if it all depends on God and live as if it all depends on them. Their DNA chooses Jesus. (He breathes out, they breathe in). Their subconscious sings. They had a blood transfusion with Jesus. Their words make the demons scream in the shopping centers. Don't you hear them coming? Heralds the weirdos! Summons the losers and the freaks. Here comes the frightened and forgotten with His fire in their eyes. They walk tall and trees applaud, skyscrapers bow, mountains are dwarfed by these children of another dimension. Their prayers summon the hounds of heaven and invoke the ancient dream of Eden. And this vision will be . It will come to pass; it will come easily; it will come soon. How do I know? Because this is the longing of creation itself, the groaning of the Spirit, the very dream of God. My tomorrow is His today. My distant hope is His 3D. And my feeble whispered, faithless prayer invokes a thunderous, resounding, bone-shaking "AMEN!" from countless angels, from heroes of the faith, from Christ Himself. And He is the original dreamer, the ultimater winner. Guaranteed!
I read this on my forum, The Harbor. One of the members there had posted it and as I was reading it I thought that I should email it to ya'll. I don't understand some of the stuff so all of it might not be right, I don't know. But it sure got me thinking about it and it got me wanting to be a part of that army that is mentioned in the story. I want to be one of them and when ya'll read it, I'm possitive that it will strike that same desire in ya'll's hearts. Maybe it was just for me or that's just how it spoke to me but I think that ya'll will get something out of it. So just read it, please.
QUOTE FROM THREAD:
The vision is Jesus- obsessively, dangerously, undeniably Jesus. The vision is an army of young people. You see bones? I see an army. And they are FREE from materialism. They laugh at 9-5 little prisons. They could eat caviar on Monday and crust on Tuesday. They wouldn't even notice. They are mobile like the wind; they belong to the nations. They need no passport. People write their addresses in pencil and wonder at their strange existence. They are free yet they are slaves of the hurting and dirty and dying. What is the vision? The vision is holiness that hurts the eyes. It makes children laugh and adults angry. It gave up the game of minimum intergrity long ago to reach for the stars. It scorns the good and strains for the best. It is dangerously pure. Light flickers from every secret motive, every private conversation. It loves people away from their suicide leaps, their satan games. This is an army that will lay down its life for the cause. A million times a day its soldiers choose to lose that they might one day win the great 'Well done faithful sons and daughters'. Such heroes are as radical on Monday mornings as Sunday night. They don't need fame from names. Instead they grin quietly upwards and hear the crowds chanting again and again "COME ON!" And the army is disciplined. Young people who beat their bodies into submission. Every soldier would take a bullet for his comrade at arms. The tattoo on their bck boasts: to live is Christ and to die is gain. Sacrifice fuels the fire of victory in their upward eyes. Winners. Martyrs. Who can stop them? Can homones hold them back? Can failure succeed? Can fear scare them or death kill them? And the generation PRAYS like a dying man with groans beyond talking, with warrior cries, sulphurous tears and with great barrow loads of laughter! Whatever it takes they will give. Breaking the rules. Shaking the mediocrity from its cozy little hide. Laying down their rights and their precious little wrings, laughing at labels, fasting essentials. The advertisers cannot mould them. Hollywood cannot mould . Hollywood cannot hold them. Peer pressure is powerless to shake their resolve at late night parties before thethingyerel cries. They wear clothes like a costume to communicate and celebrate but never to hide. Would they surrender their image or popularity? They would lay down their very liver- swap seats with the man on death row- guilty as anything. A throne for an electric chair. With blood and sweat and many tears, with sleepless nights and fruitless days, they pray as if it all depends on God and live as if it all depends on them. Their DNA chooses Jesus. (He breathes out, they breathe in). Their subconscious sings. They had a blood transfusion with Jesus. Their words make the demons scream in the shopping centers. Don't you hear them coming? Heralds the weirdos! Summons the losers and the freaks. Here comes the frightened and forgotten with His fire in their eyes. They walk tall and trees applaud, skyscrapers bow, mountains are dwarfed by these children of another dimension. Their prayers summon the hounds of heaven and invoke the ancient dream of Eden. And this vision will be . It will come to pass; it will come easily; it will come soon. How do I know? Because this is the longing of creation itself, the groaning of the Spirit, the very dream of God. My tomorrow is His today. My distant hope is His 3D. And my feeble whispered, faithless prayer invokes a thunderous, resounding, bone-shaking "AMEN!" from countless angels, from heroes of the faith, from Christ Himself. And He is the original dreamer, the ultimater winner. Guaranteed!
*more on next post...
*looks sheepish*