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SIN EDITAR (Photo credit: angel almanzo grupo 52)

We are so stuck in flesh that we don’t see your Glory!

Because we seem to always be trying to tell our story.

Blinded by the abs of men.

Tempted by the curves of woman.

Baited into the attraction of the

same parts that look like homosexuality, you see.

They say, oh many are born this way. The worst lie one could say, to me.

Dazzling in between someone else sheets, that’s stained with adultery.

But they(man) call it mistake.

Robbing the laborers of God, in the still of the night, and

on Sunday, praising you like a Saint with no sins, or tithes.

You breathe life into the womb of woman, and

she expels it like a disease, with no cure.

The cure is trust, and faith to the very end.

Faith is just a word though, that we play with like our imaginary friend.

It comes, and go.

It only exist for a mere second, with no room, or time to grow.

It’s not even, half the size of a mustard seed.

Blessings, are looked upon by flesh, as material things.

They are mere treasures of the adversary guaranteed, and backed by Hell.

Though many times you have told, us we are not for sale.

It appears we all have a story, of brokeness, bruised, empty hearts, and un-kept


Where is your story? The story of a man who died in place of the sinners, like me?

Or the sinner that looks like you?

A man who was without sin.

The nerve of you the Holy One, they say, to force your love upon us.

And if we refuse we will be cursed into hell’s fury like a thief in the night.

Who would give life, and take it away?

I say why not? You created me, when I had no right to exist in all my filthiness.

You created me in your perfection, and who am I to complain, or better yet take your

name in vain?

The maker of the stars, and moon. Sure I will tell your story. Because your story is my

story. You are the mere reason, I exist. Blessings, my blessings are you Jesus.

I finally got it God, I only need one blessing (YOU). If I have you then I am complete.

Now that they know Lord, that you are my story. They all seem to turn their heads.

They say I am an outcast to them “She thinks, she is perfect.” I smile because your

story is my story. I lay in your perfectness Lord, not mine. Their story is lost

waiting to be played in Hell. Are we to be in your image, or shape you into ours?

Why that’s Impossible! You are our Creator! I will follow you Lord, if I follow alone.

No one wants to hear the truth Lord, because a lie looks like their reflection in a



A Woman After God’s Own Heart