Rescue Mission

The last of the lavender trumpet-shaped blooms have fallen. Jacaranda flowers like instrumental blankets have been crushed and mutilated by skateboard wheels. Like trampled wine grapes, the sticky residue clings to everything; spilled syrup underneath caterpillar shoes. The sun bleached the plaza like a parched cow skull as the riffraff rise and fall on ramps as high as rafters. Underdogs go after it.

Salt rocks scattered into the wet concrete leave a buckshot finish. An orchestral arrangement aimed to shatter the cardiac casing, agape with a few stoked notes, indwells the Spirit to rule in the chamber. Those who listen will join there. Invisible symphonies grace answers like acts inside these pits. Salt rocks dropped from the portion of the sky. The deployments are on time.

The purple trumpets have been blown throughout the land. Did you listen to the sound of the trumpet call? Some will not listen. Headphones soundproof ears with sound superstitions. These bedazzling beats will not last like battery power. The levels are all peaking simultaneously, diagonally signaling. Ear blinders will be removed. Salvation will shine through new eyes. Let the wind move. The light makes us mighty healthy even after a time when the sickness is stealthy.

The off the wall voice is speaking after the call of the trumpet. Prepare the way. Proclaim Christ as our King. Let’s join together. Our God will fight for us during the rescue mission of reconciliation.

Homelessness far exceeds the fine text of a mortgage contract, leads of a realtor, or living on the best floor plan; it’s torture on souls who do not know where to go. In my Father’s home there’s many rooms prepared by the Master carpenter. Rough hands have the softest touch. The neon sign blinks, “Entry by grace only.” The beautiful Gate has been left open for you. Once you’ve walked through waves are created every which way.

The opposition to Christ and his kingdom will tremble before him.  Terrifying sounds will fill their ears; when all seems well.