Lord, Let Come With Nothing in My Hands Tongues of fire burst out in downtown streets. The drunken riot of Pentecost. Bewildered crowds gather. The river swells like the sound of violence. Fear colours the scene. Moments before the wind, they were sitting in peace. Secured from authorities, barricaded behind locks. Sin is sandbags of unbelief, but the Spirit splits untruth in two. They are no longer separate. They stand outside, face to face, speaking language everyone understands. Thousands join the new baptism, breathing free at last. Some see an economy of blasphemies shattering their temple. Whatever they hold becomes a weapon. Smoke, stones, status quo. They can’t grasp freedom; and refuse to listen to its gasps and let go.
Matthew Miller
18
