Dunamis stays locked
in the drops of my veins,
connecting and setting apart
my limbs to praise Him.
Each blood cell compels me
to spell out with no sell out,
spit scripts with clout
and uplift this shout
about the Father's unspeakable gift.
In remembrance of this,
I rip for R.I.P.'s over riffs,
resurrecting dry bones
by redirecting microphones
from exploiting pollutions
into exploring solutions.
Just look in the mirror
if you want to see revolution.

There's power in the blood, so this love's not in vain;
His plasm is the psalm running all through my veins.

The life of my flesh
remains in the blood,
for the blood is the life
of all types of flesh.
Fathom the force of the finger
that gave this fluid its form.
My ancestors' traits were reborn
when my body took shape and encased
the wisdom of kings, queens, chiefs,
slaves and believers in hope
when times made it hard to cope.

From Adam to David to the Holy Ghost,
Christ comes through one blood spread about
the east, west, north and south.

Reading chapters
on His Hebrew descent
doesn't add or subtract
from the fact that I'm a black man
who needs to daily repent
from my time spent grinding dents
up and down ditches
on Damascus Road.

The blood of the Lamb
stemmed from Shem,
but I won't overlook
how Cush, Mizraim and Phut
flowed through His heart
that He came to impart for all cultures.
So even if Jesus was black,
it shouldn't get to my head
because what's more important:
the blood He inherited
or the blood He shed?

There's power in the blood, so this love's not in vain;
His plasm is the psalm running all through my veins.

My blood feels the pressure
of bothers and pleasures,
but I can speak with my Father
through dark days and fair weather.
It's factual that prayer
is practical and tactical
since Moses, Joshua and judges
couldn't see victory
over the powers that be
without communicating with the Creator.
Man's plans come to naught
while God's hand can't be fought.

Once upon a breath,
my Stepin Fetchit mindset
would test the Testaments,
scan them and slam them
instead of praying and pressing
to understand them for myself.
Now I'm a student,
spiritual and empirical
with one Lord and one faith,
learning how only the Truth
can take all weights of debate.

It's a blessing to question
and challenge my stance
since Christ didn't retreat
but stood up to the heat
of our deep curiosities.

His Word is the anvil
that still stands as rough hands
swing sledgehammers
that keep breaking
against what they say
was a myth in the making.

It's only due to grace
that anyone is awakened
because I can know the Book
and not know the Author.
Are my scripts ready to drip
with the blood of the martyrs?

There's power in the blood, so this love's not in vain;
His plasm is the psalm running all through my veins.


Copyright 2005. Streetlight Publications.