We are his instruments by Winston Mayo. We are his instruments and being in tune with him is key. How can we measure the highs and lows of this life when we know that God is the God of the hills and the valleys, the day and creation those of this world? How can we forget that Christ climbed and crescendoed himself up calories cross as God himself descended and day crescendoed himself from off his throne to meet us in the pit? Christ incarnate, day crescendoed and descended in the trenches with us that by knowing our wrong notes would register a heaven resonance that we will receive our heaven residence. He heard our brush, brush, clay, cry, and he sounded the trumpet and instead gave up his last breath knowing that bloody blow of his woodwind would be the bloody blow that would win us back from being lost to his fold and tearing the veil of hell that no demonic devilish cord could prevail against Emmanuel sounding his bell seeing that sin was a string section that would separate a section us off from him but instead a sin stretching us thin in no longer can win from his mercy and grace not allowing it to separate us from his love. God's grace was heaven's harmonious harmony blending and purchasing a blood-bottied body a spirit and skeleton, the infinite with the finite with God and man and the Son of Man. And though humanity took a hit and was percussed and concussed and pushed out our purpose yet and still the strokes of his stripes banded us and bandaged us together with him aiding us to be in step with him that we would not march with the mark of the beast but instead to the beat of his drum we sound majoring in the seal of his salvation the blood of him being the symbol of his love who could orchestrated such a symphony of his sympathy, fixing salvation's perfect synergy and who and why and how and all the other questions of the world could not explain what he did and how could we not conduct ourselves accordingly even though our accordion faith leads us astray when we know we should stay but yet and still God has such an air about him that as we push away it causes us to grow closer with him. Oh, what a play. Oh, what a stage is his grace. Who can number and note the quarters of the centuries and millennia that our Savior has favored us and taken us with our off-temple halves to make us hold with the hold of his hold that we would love his hold and know us as his own and though we were kicked out of the garden Eden for we have sinned he became sinned himself and stepped in with redemption's repentant rhythm singing a song of his choir. Oh, what a familiar hymn are those hymns about him that we say, sing because I'm happy I sing because I am free. His eyes are on. The sparrow, so no he watches me along with all of us so how can we not get in rhythm with creations, waltz that moves us and cut time as we are moved to cut ties to the world and be and step and ensync with his son. We are merely his instruments instructed to be intimate with him with his finished work that need not be repeated salvation's playlist that shuffled us with him and himself that grace should not be replayed but simply repaid by him that he offered us his instruments. You know how I know I gotta let go the war went to the scale I don't wanna cry, I'm always I'm a little bit tired of the world I just break down I'm so useless to go