I carry whole storms in my chest,
and sometimes I ache to spill them,
to thunder the truth until walls crack
and the sleepers wake.
But Wisdom leans close,
smoothing the heat from my brow.
“Little sister,” she whispers,
“don’t set fire to dry straw.
Don’t waste your breath on those
who mistake smoke for law.”
I talk of Jesus
and I will never be ashamed.
I talk of the death of good men,
and they answer with policies,
thin paper shields against
the Word that cuts deeper than steel.
They press me to the wall,
push and push,
as if silence were surrender.
But Wisdom folds me in her arms.
She says, “Rest.
Let them shout their circles.
Let them beat the air.
Your truth doesn’t need a trumpet.
It already sings in heaven’s key.”
So I breathe,
and I say less.
For the more you say,
the more they twist it.
But the Word
the Word stands,
even when I do not speak.
"Tell Wisdom, 'You're my sister.' Treat Insight as your companion."
Proverbs 7:4, MSG, The Bible.
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