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Brought Home
the noise has died down it’s quiet all around not a sound as I lay here i can’t see stars i feel no sun i am undone in this darkness all that time… seemed so real the touch, the feel with each passing day the memory fades the shapes slip away i’m losing myself bit by bit in this grave night without end i hear your voice whisper “I am the way, the truth, the life.” your arms surround me you lift me up, and you take me home
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Because We Can’t Help It
The most basic truth of art is that we create because we’re made in God’s image. It might also be the most controversial.




