At 25 I still rage against the lover.
I still drift and wonder and run.
I still forget grace and think I have to pay my own tab.
I often think I’ll one day get there.
I’ll one day not need the blood.
I often believe that lie: saved so that we can one day not need the pierced hands.
Age may not mean we need the blood less.
I’m not sure it works that way.
I’m not sure things work as mechanical as we want them to.
Grace and holiness and the promise may be more of a dance.