Generations

Last night, Kaloyan came home from worship practice singing a song from Jake Hamilton and wanted me to hear it. So, we pulled it up on YouTube. It was good. But then another song started playing on it's own. At first I was not too into it but we listened to it and in the middle of the song, about minute 6 (yes, it's a long song), a man starts talking. He gives an account of the future if a generation will only step up. It totally rocked my world. As I was listening to it, I kept thinking this is what I want for my kids. I want them to want God more than anything else in their lives! I got the words from the spoken part of the song, which is called New Song (Worshiping Warriors). I hope it blesses you!

This is a new sound coming from the underground. The vision, the vision is Jesus. Obsessively, dangerously, undeniably, Jesus. The vision is an army of young people. You see bounds, and I see an army. And they are free from materialism. They laugh at 9-5 little prisons, they can eat caviar on Mondays and crust on Tuesday, they wouldn’t even notice. They know the meaning of the Matrix, the way the West was won, they are mobile like the wind, they belong to the nations. They need no passport. People write their addresses in pencil, and wonder at the strange existence. They are free, yet they are slaves of the hurting, the dirty and the dying. What is the vision? The vision is holiness that hurts the eyes. It makes children laugh and adults angry. It gave up the game of minimum integrity long ago to reach for the stars. It scorns the good and strains for the best. It is dangerously pure. Light flickers from every secret motive, every private conversation. It loves people away from their suicide leaps their Satan gangs. This is an army that will lay down it’s life for the cause. A million times a day, it’s soldiers choose to lose, that they might one day win the “Well done good and faithful sons and daughters”. Such hero’s are as radical on Monday morning as they are Sunday night. They don’t need fame from names instead they gleam quietly upwards. And hear the crowds chanting again and again, come on! And this is the sound of the underground. The whisper of history in the making, foundations shaking, revolutionaries dreaming once again! Mysterious scheming and whispers, conspiracy breathing, this is the sound of the underground. And the army is disciplined. Young people who beat their bodies into submission. Every solider would take a bullet for his comrade in arms. And tattooed on the back boasts, for me to live is Christ and to die is gain. Sacrifice fuels the fire of victory in their upward eyes. Winners, martyrs, who can stop them? Can hormones hold them back? Can failure succeed? Can fear scare them or death kill them? Oh and the generation prays like a dying man with groans beyond talking, with warrior cries and sulfuric tears and with great barrel loads of laughter. Waiting! Watching! 24/7 365, whatever it takes they will give. Breaking the rules, shaking meoterocy from it’s cozy little hideout. Laying down their rights and precious little wrongs. Laughing at labels and fasting essentials, the advertisers cannot mold them. Hollywood cannot hold them. Peer pressure is powerless to shake their resolve and late night parties before the cop crowd cries. They are incredible cool. Dangerously attractive from the inside. On the outside, they hardly care. They will wear clothes like costumes to communicate and celebrate but never to hide. Would they surrender their image and popularity, they would lay down their very lives. Swap seats with the man on death row, guilty as hell. A throne for the electric chair. With blood and sweat and many tears, with sleepless nights and fruitless days, they pray. As it all depends on God. And they live as if it all depends on them. Their DNA chooses Jesus. He breaths out and they breath in. Their subconscious sings, they had a blood transfusion with Jesus. Their words make demons scream in shopping centers. Don’t you hear them coming? Herald the weirdo’s, summon the losers and the freaks. Here come the frightened and the forgotten with fire in their eyes. They walk tall and the trees applaud. Skyscrapers bow, and mountains are dwarfed by these children of another dimension. Their prayers summon the hounds of Heaven, and invoke the ancient dream of Eden. And this vision will be. It will come to pass. It will come easily and it will come soon. How do I know? Because this is the longing of creation itself, the groaning of the spirit, the very dream of God. My tomorrow is His today. My distant hope is His 3D. And my feeble, whispered, faithless prayer evokes a thunderous, resounding, bone shaking, grave Amen! From countless angels, from hero’s of the faith from Christ himself. He is the original dreamer. The ultimate winner, guaranteed. This is a new song! Coming from the underground!