Praise Him
What’s in yo’ mouf?
Is it praise for the one who scripted all your days?
Who only writes plays for the glory of his name?
Is it praise for the one who creates life's stages with the might of his word?
Sentence long monologues of “let there be’s” that no drama-turge could disturb with questions of doubt.
Is it praise for the soliloquies among himself conversing in His tri-unity. Agreements no enemy could set aside; public conversations of internal assumptions of grandeur.
Whatchu tryna hide?
“Praise Him”
Might NEED to be the shout in yo’ mouf.
A rinse out the world's garbage you’ve been gargling.
Choking on the backwashed, self-taught, reliance hiding in your inner man.
Pretending all you have, never came from him.
“Praise Him”
Over overtures of independent thinking and breathing, as if your breath isn’t borrowed.
“Praise Him”
Over the aspirations that were hollow.
“Praise Him”
For the hours of the grind that only magnified yourself.
“Praise Him”
For the immaterial wealth.
“Praise Him”
For your health.
“Praise Him”
For the seconds of life gifted, that you spent on your trifles.
“Praise Him”
For the minutes of life, that you spent on your Idols.
“Praise Him”
Because He’s God, and that’s more than enough.
“Praise Him”
Because the cross is worth more than your stuff.
Let “Praise Him” chime through you with every jingle-jangle this season brings.
Ringing a “hallelujah,” and “glory to his name,” with each gust, pressing past the gold plated calf that keeps yo’ mouf closed.
Let “Praise Him!” come from surrendered hearts and sanctified souls.
Let us praise the only savior enthroned, and let us sing that chorus until he takes us home.
~Vania Claiborne