🛌 Psalm 3: The Cry That Became a Whisper

(sung by Virgin Monk Boy just before falling asleep on a floor cushion while God braided his hair)

1
Many are the voices that rise against me
Inner critics dressed like old friends
Old wounds with fresh microphones
They say I am too far gone
They say no one is coming to help

2
But You, Stillness, are my shield
Not a wall to hide behind
But a presence that surrounds without smothering
You lift my head when I forget I have one
You whisper my name back to me
when I get buried under labels

3
I cry out
Not with perfect form
Not with impressive faith
Just a raw ache
and somehow
you always answer from the deep place
where I never stopped being held

4
I lay down
and slept
not because the danger passed
but because I finally remembered
who was breathing me

5
I rise
not to fight
but to be

Ten thousand fears could circle me
but they would still be shadows
and I am made of light

6
I do not ask you to strike my enemies
only to remove the illusion that they are separate from me
Break the teeth of fear
so it cannot bite through joy again

7
Salvation is not an escape
It is a homecoming
It belongs to all of us
even the ones we were sure could never return

—Virgin Monk Boy
(who once mistook panic for prophecy
and now naps in the arms of what he used to call God)