But the song we sing is not of this world. With each note
coming from our lips, we bleed, we heave. We pound at the ground,
panting in thirst, till we’re bloody, broken, dead.
Our song is not beautiful. We sing about the darkness of
night, the darkness of sin, where light is never seen, and demons
sway back and forth to the beat. Our voice becomes our only instrument.
Songs of deliverance, whales and screams, a song that if you heard,
you’d too wish you were dead.
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The idea of the song has been fascinating me lately. People singing a song of shear heartache, yet trying to put up a front, to cover up their pain. Music is such a powerful tool. People use their music to tell us to come a little closer, to look, to listen. Listen to their words, feel their heartache, act out upon injustice. A song is more than just a lovely melody - it’s a plea for help, for restoration. Look a little closer. Listen a little deeper.
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The idea of the song has been fascinating me lately. People singing a song of shear heartache, yet trying to put up a front, to cover up their pain. Music is such a powerful tool. People use their music to tell us to come a little closer, to look, to listen. Listen to their words, feel their heartache, act out upon injustice. A song is more than just a lovely melody - it’s a plea for help, for restoration. Look a little closer. Listen a little deeper.
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