My First Love

When I look outward—
I read the language of this generation:
it’s complicated,
echoes of borrowed affection,
contracts without covenant,
souls grazing where they were meant to dwell.

But when I turn inward—
past the flesh, past the hunger—
I behold the craftsmanship
of the Most High:
a heart fearfully, wonderfully made,
set apart, not for fragments—
but for fullness.

So why do we lay this sacred vessel
upon altars that were never holy?

Why do we offer living hearts
to hands unwashed, unworthy—
hands still stained
with the memory of the last soul they shattered?

Hands that do not hold—
they violate.

They come not to cherish,
but to consume.

They steal virtue like breath in the night,
barter purpose for temporary warmth,
silence callings before they ever learn to speak.

These are the hands that hinder.
The hands that hollow.
The hands that harm—
smiling as they undo what Heaven designed.

And in our wandering,
in our quiet rebellions,
love becomes misplaced—
misnamed,
misused,
until we no longer recognize
its voice.

But even here—
you are not lost beyond return.

There is still a way back
through the darkness of confusion,
past the ache of misgiving,
into the arms that knew you
before you ever reached outward.

Return to your First Love.

Not as one ashamed—
but as one remembered.

And let Him gather the scattered pieces,
lift your heart from every counterfeit altar,
and place it—steady, whole, and known—
into the only hands that never wound 
what they were meant to keep.