the earth is His.

not mine. 

not yours. 

not ours.

not theirs.

His.

every mountain, every river, 

every wave, every breeze,

every city, every forest, 

every silent night,

every crisp morning, 

every person everywhere: 

His.

we build, we claim, 

we grasp, we seek to maintain,

but we do not own.

we are visitors in 

the Creator’s land. 

we are pilgrims 

walking roads 

He designed,

breathing air 

He first breathed 

into dust.

who may enter?

who may stand before 

the One 

who made it all?

clean hands? pure hearts?

that’s the answer? 

i have neither.

my hands are stained. 

my heart is cluttered.

my steps wobble 

as i climb 

His holy hill.

but, is this true? 

but, is this accurate? 

but, is this real? 

the Savior stands 

where i should fall,

His hands clean 

where mine are unworthy,

His heart pure 

where mine is divided,

His voice speaking 

where mine falls silent.

He calls me 

higher, higher, higher—

not by my own strength,

but by His grace.

“lift up your heads!

the King is coming,”

we are to sing.

sing, as declaration.

sing, by faith. 

sing, He is. 

not a ruler 

of earthly thrones,

not a power 

that fades with time,

not a politician 

controlled by popularity, 

but the King of Glory,

strong and mighty,

victorious in every battle, 

every single battle, 

even the battle for my soul.

gates open.

doors give way.

He enters.

not just a city. 

not just a temple.

not just a world 

that already belongs 

to Him.

He enters me.

my heart, 

my life, 

my everything.

Who is He?

the Creator, 

the Savior, 

the King.

He is mine.

now and

before all things,

i was His.

already, i was 

His.