We strive in this life for all the wrong things
We cry from our broken dreams
Search the sky to see what it means
Fly toward the end of the stream.

Forever seems like too much to hope
endeavor to live right
define your own meaning.
and choke on the end of your rope.

It’s a bit dark in the tunnel alone
But who’s alone for real?
Who’s ever alone?
What we know makes us feel.
Cause we feel what we know.

We are never alone and
the purpose and plan
for this life is the hand
held out to correct, not to fan
the flames of our self seeking ways
but replace them with the purpose He always intended
and mend us and rend out the rot from our souls.

Original Art by MichelleMarie

By his life He saved us
By his might He raised us
Empowering the resurrection cry.

Dying once, he saved believers
Calling all his saints to glory
A story for the resurrected life.

A friend to them who lowly bow
Ascending to the face of glory
For eternal shore awaits the justified.

Singing over the called and listening
Glory glistening from his voice
Rejoice, oh daughter of Zion,
face his splendid, sacred choice.
Renew the vow of covenant
and bless the nations with the joyful noise!

Who is like the Lord?
Faithful into the future
Merciful on me and my past
Straightening my path.

You are my portion
My inheritance
My Brother.

Giving credence to my plea
but turning it to your pleasure.
Working your power in me
and changing me into your treasure.

It vaguely resembled him. His hair, his eyes, were the same.

Nothing else would say that it was him. Nothing else could get out more than a whisper.

The temple light shown down upon the abandoned street and glared in the face of the man who had been the first of his kind, the most famous of his kind. He was a Juggernaut.

A light rain fell on the cobblestones and he hesitated in his step. The temple seemed to waiver in his vision. Was he dreaming? What would he do if he was?

He drunkenly took another step, his right hand brushing against the lightpost.

He fell in the sand, face forward, then lifted his head.

There was no temple, there was no rain…only the dark sands of the wilderness. He was dry to the bones. Even worse than the dryness in his body was the dryness of his soul.

But the man he had seen near the temple; could he be the one he was supposed to find? What had happened to the temple, it was there, then gone.

Had he been thinking rationally, he could have reasoned the cause, but reason had abandoned his dry soul long ago.

Power will abandon us all: Health will fail us.

Michael died in the desert he had created. In his own creation did he die.

Closer to the way of life than ever, but never on the right side.

Mourned by many, known by few, he was a brave soul.

These were the words written on his headstone.