Poetry

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This Is My Salvation Song

I.
The bell tolls. Incense rises like memory.
I kneel where generations have knelt,
hands folded not from habit, but from hunger.
The altar is dressed in white.
His hand lifts cup and broken bread—
and I remember that blood speaks.

II.
Salvation is not escape. It is incarnation.
God did not pull me from the fire—
He stepped into it. The Word
did not hover above flesh but became it,
bone and nerve and breath.
Atonement is not transaction. It is the wound that heals.

III.
I walked into the woods
and the trees did not preach, but they knew.
The wind did not quote scripture,
but it carried peace.
I sat by the river and it baptised me without a name.
There, I was not a sinner. I was a soul.

IV.
I sing, not because I understand,
but because I have been found.
My voice is cracked— still, it rises.
This is not a hymn. It is not a creed.
It is the sound of chains falling and
silence breaking and the Morning Star
calling me by name.

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