Tunnel of Mud

A while ago I had a cell mate to occupy all my days, till one night I got bored and He suggested we stray. So we started a tunnel to take us far away from there, where the warden’s days aren’t numbered by the whispers in the air.

Thug love doesn’t suffer long and is unkind, thug love does envy; thug love does parade itself and is puffed up.

He gave me the light as He dug through rocks and stone, and we finally broke out to search for a new home. We turned right onto a bridge over water that wasn’t too deep, found our secret place and it was a pasture of sheep.

Thug love does behave rudely, does seek it’s own; is provoked; thinks evil; rejoices in iniquity and not truth.

That night was the first I remember not being afraid, of the mystery and the madness the dark so often made. It’s easy to lay low when integrity’s expensive and innuendo’s free, but my cell mate is Yashua and the prison had always been me.

His love bears all things, believes all things; hopes all things; endures all things; it never fails or passes away.

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