No More Games

10:09 AM

When I first read "Azusa Street" by Frank Bartleman, this poem was my response. Actually, first there were tears and grief and prayer and then, this poem.

It's not okay anymore.
The signs of death, I will not ignore.
How can we continue this way?
Spiritual theatrical parts to play?
One song, two song, three song, four

The game is done; I play no more.
Spirit, lead me, You're the Guide.
Jesus, tell me, You're the Head.
Father, reveal this mystery-
How we ought to see Your glory.

Are we serious when we say,
"This game of church, we won't play?"
Or is it satan's soothing balm
As blood drips down our guilty palms?
What a mockery of the real thing

As we dance and shout and sing
No one knows (to our shame)
The Spirit has long since gone away.

O where is the passion to pray?
To seek and search for His face?
Has it been stolen or given away?
We traded our prayer for baseball games.

We've forsaken our first love
Our first want-that we used to think of.
When did "nothing else matters"
Become "here's my weekly two hours?"

Religious exercise in carnal minds
Makes all spiritually blind
Working hard to accomplish on earth
What should've been done in heaven first.
O why don't we know the power of prayer?
Why don't we love to petition our Father?

Why are we running away from His presence?
Yet wondering why we can't accomplish His purpose?

Let us be humbled and broken before Him.
Nothing will ever be done without Him.
Let us stop playing the games of religion,
And feel again the prick of conviction.
Let us be desperate and needy for Jesus,
Unable to tread without hearing His voice.
Let us be people dependent on prayer
As necessary as breathing the air.

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