Tag Archives: Holy Spirit

Revival

The Cry That Shakes Heaven

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A Midnight Prayer for Glory

There is a sound rising from the earth—not a song rehearsed, not a performance, not a shallow plea. It is the cry for Heaven to come down, erupting from the depths of those who have tasted the ache of delay, who have seen the ruins of the Church, who groan not for entertainment but for the living God. This cry is not born in comfort but in the night—at midnight—when darkness tries to settle over the saints and silence the watchmen.

This is the cry of a priesthood
This is the cry of a people.
This is the cry of a nation.
It is as in Joel’s day, when the prophet declared:

“Let the priests, the ministers of the Lord, weep between the porch and the altar, and let them say, ‘Have compassion and do not make Your inheritance a disgrace, a byword among the nations’” (Joel 2:17 AMP).

The Spirit stirs the hearts of a remnant. These are those who have turned aside from distractions and lesser loves. They have abandoned comfort for communion. Their prayers are not polite. Their prayers groan. They sound like Hannah before Eli—misunderstood, misread, but heard in Heaven. “Out of the abundance of my complaint and grief I have spoken until now,” she said (1 Samuel 1:16 NASB).

This is midnight prayer—like Paul and Silas in the prison cell, “about midnight they were praying and singing hymns to God, and the prisoners were listening to them” (Acts 16:25 NASB). Their backs were bleeding. Their voices echoed in the darkness. But that cry? That cry shook foundations. That cry brought an earthquake. That cry opened every door.

Beloved, we are not in peacetime. We are at war in the Spirit. The hour is midnight. Not just chronologically, but spiritually. It is the hour of oil and flame, of lamps trimmed and hearts tested. In this midnight hour, a people must rise who will cry out—not for ease, but for God. Not for the gifts of His hand, but for the beauty of His face. This is not a cry from the convenience of daylight. This is the sound of those who left their beds, left their sleep, left the comfort of routine to stand watch and contend for glory.

It is the sound of those who burn when others slumber.
It is the sound of those who pray when others scroll.
It is the sound of the wise virgins whose lamps are full when the Bridegroom comes (Matthew 25:6 NASB).

The cry for Heaven to come down is not vague. It is bridal. It is the Spirit and the Bride saying, “Come!” (Revelation 22:17 NASB). It is the longing of the Church to be washed and radiant. “Arise, shine; for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you” (Isaiah 60:1 NASB). The people of God come out of darkness—yes, even spiritual sleep—and are bathed in light.

She, the Bride, is not ashamed anymore.
She rises, leaning on her Beloved (Song of Songs 8:5).
She no longer hides behind walls or waits for another day.
She opens her mouth and lets the cry loose.

This cry is not passive. It is priestly. It stands in the gap like Moses: “Yet now, if You will forgive their sin, very well; but if not, please erase me from Your book which You have written!” (Exodus 32:32 NASB). It wrestles like Jacob, “I will not let You go unless You bless me” (Genesis 32:26 NASB). It presses through like the Canaanite woman, “Even the dogs feed on the crumbs which fall from their masters’ table” (Matthew 15:27 NASB).

This is not noise for noise’s sake. This is the sound of desperation married to hope. This is the sound of Ezekiel’s valley when bones begin to rattle. This is the sound of Elijah’s servant returning the seventh time—“Behold, a cloud as small as a man’s hand is coming up from the sea” (1 Kings 18:44 NASB). The sound is small at first, but it carries the weight of Heaven.

The cry for Heaven to come down is not a corporate strategy—it is a holy ache. It is not born in clever sermons or polished lights, but in the hidden closet, in the midnight hour, when flesh sleeps and the Spirit of the living God broods over the deep.

And God hears it.
He answers fire with fire.
He answers weakness with glory.
He answers longing with presence.

“Oh, that You would tear open the heavens and come down, that the mountains would quake at Your presence!” (Isaiah 64:1 NASB).

This is not the cry of those content with yesterday’s manna. It is the hunger of those who have seen that there is more of Him, and they will not rest until He comes.

And He will come.

Prayer

Father, we cry out to You in the night.
Let our voices rise like incense. Let our tears be a testimony.
Shake the heavens, rend them open, and pour Yourself upon Your people.

Make us a priesthood that weeps, a Bride that watches, a nation that returns.
Let our midnight prayers be heard in the throne room.
Let the light of Your glory shine on us, and let us walk out of the darkness into Your marvelous light.

Come, Yeshua, walk among the lampstands again.
Find us awake. Find us longing.
Let our cry for Heaven to come down reach Your heart.

In Your name, amen.

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Presence

The Presence

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Here, Yet Longed For – Waiting, Yet Responding

There is a holy tension woven into every step of the believer’s walk: God is here, yet we still cry out for Him to come. We are filled with the Holy Spirit, yet we pause in sacred stillness, waiting to receive. We are seated with Christ in heavenly places, and yet we stand on trembling knees, longing for His touch, listening for His whisper. This paradox is not confusion—it is communion. It is the heartbeat of a people who know the nearness of God and still yearn for deeper glory.

Yeshua promised, “I am with you always, even to the end of the age” (Matthew 28:20, NASB). His presence is not a fleeting emotion or a rare visitation; it is an unshakable truth. He is the indwelling King, the One who lives in us through His Spirit. And yet, the cry of the Bride has never ceased: “Come, Lord Jesus!” (Revelation 22:20). We do not cry out because He has left us—we cry because our hearts burn for the fullness of His reign. We carry both the fire of His presence and the ache of His return. We are lovers caught in the tension of already and not yet.

In the quiet morning hours, we wait—not as beggars, but as children with open hands. We are not pleading for the Spirit to visit as a guest; we are welcoming Him as Lord. The Spirit does not merely come upon us; He abides within us (John 14:17). But abiding does not cancel out pursuit. Presence does not negate hunger. In fact, it deepens it. To truly know God is to want more of Him. To experience His nearness is to be undone by His holiness and cry out, “Let me see Your glory!” as Moses did (Exodus 33:18).

This is the mystery of The Presence—He is here, and yet we seek. We are filled, and yet we thirst. This is not double-mindedness; it is devotion. It is the heart that refuses to settle for the outer courts when the veil has been torn. It is the spirit that says, “Thank You, Lord,” and “Come, Lord,” in the same breath. To wait on the Lord is not inactivity; it is posture. It is listening with the ears of the heart and responding with readiness.

I’ve found myself in that place more than once during worship. A moment comes where the air changes—where the room stills, and I feel as if Yeshua Himself just passed by my side. It’s not imagination. It’s not emotion. It’s Presence. My heart reaches out, desperate to hold onto Him, to catch Him, to remain in that moment. I stretch toward Him—not with hands, but with spirit—and still, He slips just beyond reach. Not out of cruelty, but invitation. He stirs my hunger so I will seek Him more. He walks by not to tease me, but to awaken my pursuit.

Elijah stood on the mountain, waiting for God. The wind came, but the Lord was not in it. The earthquake shook, but still, He was not there. Then came the still, small voice (1 Kings 19:11–12). That whisper was not absence; it was intimacy. To know The Presence is to slow down enough to hear the whisper and be still enough to recognize the weight of glory.

We stand in worship not to awaken God, but to awaken ourselves. We listen not to earn His presence, but to align with it. The Church must learn again how to wait—not as those abandoned, but as those expected to move when He speaks. Like the priests who stood still in the Jordan while the people passed through, or the servants at Cana who filled jars before they knew why, we are called to obey even when we don’t understand. The Presence moves with those who are willing to respond.

The Presence is not a mood. It is a Person. He is not summoned by music or stirred by emotional theatrics. He is drawn to humility, hunger, and holiness. And He is already here. The question is not, “Will He come?” but rather, “Will we notice, and will we respond?”

Beloved, this is the posture of a people who know their God: waiting without wavering, listening without rushing, worshiping without distraction, and obeying without delay. The Presence is here. The Spirit lives within you. But the measure of your awareness determines the depth of your response. He stands at the door and knocks. Not because He is far—but because He is kind. He wants to be welcomed, not merely acknowledged.

So we say, “Come, Lord,” not from absence, but from adoration. We wait—not because He delays, but because we trust His timing. We stand—not to impress Him, but to align with Him. We listen—not because He is silent, but because His voice is worth every ounce of our attention.

And when He speaks, we move.

Prayer

A Cry for the Fullness of His Presence

Abba Father,

In the name of Yeshua, I bow low before You. I lay down every agenda, every distraction, every false comfort, and I lift my heart in holy surrender. I do not seek what Your hand can give—I seek Your face. I long not for blessings, but for The Presence of God, the nearness of Your glory that transforms everything it touches.

King of Majesty,

I confess: You are here. You dwell within me by Your Spirit. But I cry out for more—not because You are absent, but because I have not yielded all. Burn away every barrier I have built. Tear down every idol I have entertained. Let there be no room in me untouched by Your holiness.

Yeshua, my Bridegroom and King,

I want to walk with You as Enoch walked. I want to host Your presence as David did—undignified in worship, unshaken in trust, unrelenting in pursuit. Let the fear of the Lord mark my steps. Let the oil of intimacy flow from my life. Make me a living altar, a burning lampstand, a ready vessel.

Holy Spirit,

I submit my time, my thoughts, my strength, my affections—all of it. Teach me to wait without impatience, to listen without assumption, to respond without delay. May my ears be tuned to Your whisper and my soul quick to obey. Set a fire in my bones that only Your presence can sustain.

I declare by faith: Your presence is my portion, my pursuit, and my prize. Let nothing satisfy me but more of You. Let my life echo one cry—“Come, Lord, dwell in me fully and reign through me completely.”

In the name of Yeshua,

Amen.

See Also

The Vision (for the seekers)

The One Who Walks Among the Lampstands

A Companion to “The Presence”

I stood in worship, hands lifted, heart burning, when the atmosphere shifted. The room was still, but something eternal began to move. The air thickened—rich, like frankincense mingled with rain. It was the kind of stillness that makes you forget your surroundings and remember your soul.

Then—I saw Him.

He walked among golden lampstands, their flames alive and unyielding. No smoke, just fire—pure and holy. The scent of burning oil and sacred history lingered in the air. Each flame seemed to bow as He passed, and though He moved with quiet authority, every step reverberated through the floor like thunder sealed in mercy.

His eyes were not just aflame—they were alive. They searched, they saw, they pierced and healed. His robe flowed like light through water, and across His chest was the golden sash of a High Priest. I knew in that moment: this was the One who walks among the churches. The One from Revelation. The Lord Himself.

But more than that—He looked at me, and He saw me.

Not as a background worshiper. Not as an unnoticed soul. He saw me—and in His eyes I wasn’t just included. I was known. I mattered. His gaze didn’t expose me in shame—it clothed me in love. I was no longer a bystander. I was being drawn in.

He said nothing at first. He just looked. And in that holy silence, waves of knowing crashed over me. My spirit stirred, aching for more, overwhelmed by a love too fierce to describe.

He moved past me—so close the air felt charged with glory. My skin tingled. My heart raced. I breathed in, and the air itself tasted heavy with holiness—sweet like honey, but deep like earth after rain. My spirit cried out, Don’t let Him pass me by. I reached—not with hands, but with hunger. I could not move. I could only ache.

Then He turned.

His voice was the sound of many waters—like the ocean speaking Scripture. Fierce and tender. Strong and near. “You have cried out for My presence,” He said, “but My presence is not a moment. It is a life. A lamp kept burning.”

“I do not walk among the lampstands to be observed. I walk to inspect, to ignite, and to call. You are not waiting for Me to arrive. I am waiting for you to become ready.”

He stepped closer. His hand rested on my chest, and I expected fire—but it was weight, like glory wrapped in peace. My knees buckled beneath the touch. I tasted my own tears, but they were holy—not sorrowful, but set apart.

“Let this be your portion,” He said, “to wait when others rush, to listen when others speak, to move when I breathe. Keep the flame. Trim the wick. Be the dwelling place. I do not visit the casual—I abide with the surrendered.”

Then He was gone.

But the scent remained. The fire remained. The ache remained. I opened my eyes and the room was just a room again—but I was no longer the same.

He had passed by—but not to tease or to test. He passed by to awaken. To stir the cry that says, “More of You, Lord—whatever the cost.”

And that cry still burns in me now.

Faith & Sacrifice, Visions

A Pain Felt in Heaven

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When Jesus cried out, “It is finished,” He did not speak as a defeated man, but as the victorious Son of God. With that cry, the heavens shook and the earth trembled. The curtain in the temple was torn from top to bottom. The work of redemption was complete. But have you ever considered what it meant—not just for Jesus—but for the heart of the Father?

“For God so loved the world, that He gave His only Son, so that everyone who believes in Him will not perish, but have eternal life” (John 3:16, NASB). We quote this verse often, and rightly so. But we must pause and feel the weight of what it says: God gave His Son. He didn’t loan Him. He didn’t shield Him from suffering. He gave Him, fully, painfully, and completely.

This was no ordinary giving. This was the giving of the most precious, most holy, most beloved relationship in all eternity. The Father gave the Son, and the Spirit empowered the Son, that we might live. There was no division within the Trinity, no conflict of will. The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit were in perfect unity—a divine agreement made before the foundation of the world (1 Peter 1:19–20). Yet still, when Jesus hung upon that cross, the pain pierced more than flesh—it pierced the very heart of heaven.

Let’s not imagine the cross as a scene where Jesus suffers alone while the Father remains unmoved. That’s not the God of Scripture. God is love (1 John 4:8). And love suffers. “He who did not spare His own Son, but delivered Him over for us all…” (Romans 8:32, NASB). What kind of love is this, that the Father would give what was most dear to Him, knowing full well the price?

When Yeshua bore the full weight of our sin, something unfathomable occurred. “God made Him who knew no sin to be sin on our behalf, so that we might become the righteousness of God in Him” (2 Corinthians 5:21, NASB). That transaction required justice. And for a moment—just a moment—the Father turned His face away. Not in abandonment, but in holiness. Not in rejection, but in judgment. And in that moment, the cry of Jesus pierced the heavens: “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” (Matthew 27:46, NASB).

It’s not wrong to say that heaven felt that pain. God is not indifferent. He is not a cold judge. He is our Abba Father—tender, merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love (Psalm 103:8). When the spear was thrust into the side of the Son, the Father knew. When the thorns pierced His brow, the Father wept. This wasn’t just a human tragedy; it was a divine agony.

But it was also a divine triumph.

“It is finished” (John 19:30). That declaration meant more than the end of pain—it meant the beginning of grace. The wrath of God was satisfied. The debt of sin was paid in full. The way back to the Father was opened. Heaven did not just feel the pain—it rejoiced in the victory. And all of it—every step—was born out of love.

So now, beloved reader, you must ask yourself: What will you do with this love?

You were bought with a price (1 Corinthians 6:20). Not with silver or gold, but with the precious blood of Christ, a lamb without blemish (1 Peter 1:18–19). You are not your own. If the Father gave His Son for you, how can you live casually toward Him? If the Spirit groans for you, interceding with groanings too deep for words (Romans 8:26), how can you neglect so great a salvation?

You must not stand aloof from the cross. You must come near. Let it break your heart. Let it cleanse your sin. Let it reorient your entire life. Heaven felt the pain that redeemed you.Will you now live as though it costs you nothing?

Paul writes, “I have been crucified with Christ, and it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me” (Galatians 2:20, NASB). That’s the response of a heart that has seen the cross. Not religion. Not routine. Not a Sunday-only faith. But a life crucified, a life surrendered, a life aflame with gratitude.

Friend, if you have become numb to the cross, ask God to awaken your heart. Pray that you never grow comfortable with His sacrifice. Ask Him to show you what it meant—for the Son to suffer, for the Spirit to empower Him, for the Father to give Him up. That kind of love is not safe. It demands everything.

And yet, it gives everything.

Because of that pain felt in heaven, you now have peace. Because of the sorrow of the cross, you now have joy. Because of the silence of Saturday, you now have resurrection Sunday.

Do not waste this gift.

Come again to the foot of the cross. Let it wreck your pride. Let it shatter your excuses. And then rise, filled with the Holy Spirit, and live like someone who knows that God Himself bled for your freedom.

A Prayer for Today:

Father, thank You for the love that gave Your Son. Yeshua, thank You for the obedience that led You to the cross. Holy Spirit, thank You for staying with me and showing me the depth of this love. Awaken my heart again. Let me never treat lightly the agony of Calvary. Help me to live sacrificially, joyfully, and boldly in response to Your grace. Let my life reflect the weight of what was done for me. In Yeshua’s holy name, Amen.

Vision

Elderly man with long white hair and beard stands solemnly in a sunlit stone room, with a cross-shaped window glowing behind him.
In the stillness of heaven, the Father grieved. Light poured through eternity’s window, but His heart bore the weight of the cross.

In heaven, the atmosphere was weighty—thick with holy sorrow and glory. The golden streets, so often resounding with songs of praise, fell into a stillness that echoed through eternity. The scent of incense, always rising before the throne, was now mingled with something deeper—an aroma of sacrifice, like the offering of Isaac remembered and fulfilled. The air carried the tension of divine justice and eternal love colliding in one sacred moment.

The Father stood robed in radiant light, yet His expression bore the agony of a grieving King. His eyes—all-seeing—beheld His Son stretched on wood, blood mingling with dirt, and heard every cry, every mocking voice, every gasping breath. From His throne, He could feel the vibrations of the Roman hammer striking nails—each blow shaking the pillars of creation. The sounds of the earth—groaning, thundering, cracking—were not missed in heaven. The cry “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” pierced even the silence of eternity.

Around Him, the angelic host did not sing—they wept. Seraphim who had never ceased to cry “Holy” now covered their faces. The light of heaven shimmered with reverence and pain, like a storm forming just beneath the surface of peace. Thunder rumbled in the spirit realm. Flashes of glory stirred, restrained only by the will of the Father. All power stood clothed in stillness. The Son, robed in humility, did not summon the hosts of heaven though they waited—ten thousand times ten thousand, swords drawn in perfect obedience. The earth shook not from their advance, but from the trembling surrender of Love. Yeshua held back the storm, not for lack of strength, but for the joy set before Him.

All might, all angelic legions stood ready—yet none moved. Not a seraph’s wing stirred, not a cherub dared breathe without His command. He could have called them. But He chose the cross. Not because He was overpowered, but because He came to overpower death with mercy. This was the Lamb’s hour. This was the Father’s plan.

And still, the Father breathed in the moment, tasting the bitterness of wrath He would not withhold. His hands, sovereign and eternal, did not tremble—but His heart did feel. He knew the end from the beginning, but this was the cost. He felt the tear in the Son’s flesh as if it were His own. And He did not stop it. For love. For you.

Even in that pain, a fragrance began to rise—stronger than incense, sweeter than myrrh. The fragrance of redemption.It was the smell of blood that would wash nations, of obedience that would open graves, of a sacrifice that would welcome prodigals home. The throne shook not in fury, but in fulfillment. And somewhere, just beyond the veil, resurrection waited.

See Also

Love

Hearts on Fire: The Spirit and the Word

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“Were not our hearts burning within us while He was speaking to us on the road, while He was explaining the Scriptures to us?” (Luke 24:32, NASB)

The two disciples on the road to Emmaus had just encountered the risen Yeshua. They didn’t recognize Him at first, but as He walked with them and opened the Scriptures, something deeper stirred—their hearts burned. Not from manipulated sentiment or hyped theatrics, but from divine revelation breaking through veils of sorrow and confusion. This burning was not a fleeting feeling; it was the ignition of truth meeting the Spirit within.

Beloved, this is how God works. God does not play with our emotions. He doesn’t stage artificial atmospheres to provoke momentary sentiment. He is not in the business of entertaining souls, but of transforming them. His Spirit and His Word always work in unity, and when they touch a willing heart, the result is conviction, awakening, and worship.

There is a troubling trend in our generation: many are drawn to religious environments where emotionalism replaces anointed preaching, and psychological techniques masquerade as spiritual encounters. But let us be discerning. Emotions are not evidence of truth—they are merely responses. When the Spirit of God moves, emotions may rise, but they are the byproduct, not the proof. The Psalmist cried, “The entrance of Your words gives light” (Psalm 119:130, AMP). Light does not need to stir a tear to prove it has entered—it simply reveals.

The apostle Paul warned of a time when people would “accumulate for themselves teachers in accordance with their own desires” (2 Timothy 4:3, NASB). In such times, truth is replaced with experience, and conviction is replaced with sensation. But true revival never begins with a tear—it begins with truth and repentance. “Sanctify them in the truth; Your word is truth” (John 17:17, NASB). Where the Word is rightly preached and the Spirit is welcomed, there will always be transformation.

To be clear, God is not against our emotions. He created them. But they are not the foundation of our faith—they are its fragrance. When Peter heard the voice of the Father declare Yeshua’s Sonship on the Mount of Transfiguration, he later wrote, “We have the prophetic word made more sure” (2 Peter 1:19, NASB). Peter valued the Word above the experience. This is the true order of the Kingdom: the Word gives the foundation, the Spirit brings life, and emotion flows as a holy response.

We must ask ourselves: What burns within us? Is it truth igniting holy passion? Or is it the flicker of manipulated feeling soon to die out when the music fades? The early Church burned with a fire not fed by smoke machines or stirring choruses, but by the Word made flesh, crucified, risen, and soon returning. Their message pierced hearts, not by volume or rhythm, but by Spirit and truth. “For the word of God is living and active, and sharper than any two-edged sword” (Hebrews 4:12, NASB).

There is a deep need in the Body today to return to that Emmaus road—to walk with Yeshua again, to listen as He opens the Scriptures, to allow the fire of truth to burn away the dross of shallow religion. The Church does not need another show; it needs another awakening. It is time to build altars, not stages. It is time to host His presence, not emotions.

“You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free” (John 8:32, NASB). But only if we receive it. Only if we linger long enough to let the Spirit breathe on it. Only if we resist the temptation to replace depth with entertainment. Beloved, God wants your heart, not just your tears. He desires truth in the inward parts (Psalm 51:6), and He sends His Spirit to seal it within us.

So today, let us pray not for a passing feeling, but for a fire that remains. Let us seek not to be stirred but to be changed. Let our hearts burn again—not because a preacher moved us, but because God spoke.

⸻

Let your Word Burn again
The Power of the Word

A Prayer for the Burning Heart

Father, we come not to be entertained but to be transformed. Let Your Word burn within us again. Let Your Spirit open our eyes to truth, convict our hearts, and renew our minds. Strip away every counterfeit emotion, every religious pretense, and every shallow substitute for Your presence. Ignite a holy fire in us—not for performance, but for purity. We want to walk with You, listen to You, and burn with love for You. Give us a heart that trembles at Your Word and rejoices in Your truth. Let our worship rise not from manipulated tears, but from a heart set ablaze by revelation. In the name of Yeshua, amen.

⸻

See Also

Holiness and Revival

Love God, Hate Sin

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“Hate evil, love good, and establish justice in the court [of your city’s gate]! Perhaps the Lord God of hosts will be gracious to the remnant of Joseph.”
—Amos 5:15 (AMP)

Beloved, we have arrived at a point in Church history where we must confront an inconvenient truth: you cannot love God and be neutral toward sin. To love God is to embrace what He loves and to despise what He hates. Anything less is compromise, and compromise is not the soil in which revival grows.

In our hunger for grace, we have softened our stance against evil. We whisper warnings when God shouts them. We stroke the edges of darkness rather than calling it what it is. But the Lord, whose name is holy, still burns with a fierce hatred for sin—not because He is cruel, but because He is love. Love abhors all that destroys. Therefore, if we are to walk as Yeshua walked, we must awaken to His holy hatred.

The Holy Divide: What Love Demands

To love purity is to loathe impurity. To love truth is to grieve over lies. This is not double-mindedness—it is the necessary result of a sanctified affection. David cried, “From Your precepts I get understanding; Therefore I hate every false way” (Psalm 119:104, NASB). Not tolerate. Not minimize. Hate.

This is not a hate born of pride or cruelty. It is the righteous hatred of Christ Himself, who Scripture says was anointed above His companions precisely because He loved righteousness and hated wickedness (Hebrews 1:9). It is the burning purity of God that pours oil on His people—not charisma, not comfort, not conformity, but consecration.

We do not get to pick which evils are worth hating. Sin is sin, whether it sits in the heart or walks in the streets. Whether it is lust in the pew, corruption in the court, or deceit in the pulpit—all of it grieves the Spirit. The cross was not partial in its sentence. Yeshua did not bleed selectively. And the Spirit will not dwell in a temple where evil is excused.

The Gap Between Anointing and Affection

Why do we cry out for revival and yet see no rain? Why do we pray for the fire to fall, yet keep our altars wet with compromise? It is not because God is unwilling. It is because our affections are divided.

“Do not love the world nor the things in the world. If anyone loves the world, the love of the Father is not in him” (1 John 2:15, NASB). The anointing follows affection. You cannot embrace holiness with one arm while hugging rebellion with the other.

It is our imperfection in loving the good and hating the evil that restricts the outpouring of the Holy Spirit. God does not give His glory to the half-hearted. If we want to be full of the Spirit, we must be emptied of what grieves Him. We must be willing to lay aside not just bad things, but lesser things—even things others around us still cling to. This is the cost of the oil. But oh, the reward is worth it.

The Dangerous Comfort of Niceness

Our nation has known unprecedented religious freedom. We build churches without resistance. We broadcast sermons without censorship. But let us not mistake absence of persecution for the favor of God. Sometimes it means we have become too tame to be threatening.

“Woe to you when all people speak well of you, for so their fathers used to treat the false prophets” (Luke 6:26, AMP). The world has not hated us because we have not given it a reason to. We have chosen the easier road. The applause of man has become louder than the voice of God.

We are too quick to excuse sin, to dilute conviction in the name of love. But beloved, this is not the love of Christ. The love of Christ was never silent in the face of wickedness. It flipped tables. It rebuked the religious. It wept over the lost. It bled for the sinner but never approved the sin.

To love like Jesus is to be misunderstood. It is to be a nuisance to the world and a fragrance of life to the remnant. It is to pursue righteousness even when it costs you reputation, comfort, and standing. Vance Havner was right—we are so busy running for office that we have forgotten to stand for truth.

The Narrow Way: Love That Separates

“Whoever pursues righteousness and loyalty finds life, righteousness, and honor” (Proverbs 21:21, NASB). Notice that the path to life is not through appeasement. It is through pursuit. Righteousness must be chased with abandon.

If we are to be the Bride of Christ, we must look like Him. And the Lamb is pure. He is holy. His garments are not stained with compromise. Those who follow Him must wash their robes in His blood and forsake the harlotries of this world.

We must recover our disgust for sin—not as self-righteousness, but as spiritual sanity. Sin is not a lifestyle choice. It is death. It is rebellion. It is the very thing that pierced the hands of our Lord. To tolerate it is to make peace with the nails.

Let us not be afraid to be counted among the fools for Christ. Let us reject the fear of being labeled “intolerant,” “radical,” or “legalistic.” The only label that matters is this: “Well done, good and faithful servant.” That label does not come cheap. It is forged in the fires of obedience and secured in a heart that loves God more than it loves comfort.

Justice Begins at the Gate

Amos cried out not just for private piety, but for public justice. “Hate evil, love good, and establish justice in the court [of your city’s gate]!” (Amos 5:15, AMP). The revival God seeks is not one of emotion alone, but of reformation.

If we tolerate injustice in our courts, dishonesty in our systems, and corruption in our dealings, we mock the God of righteousness. The Church must again become a voice for justice—not partisan justice, but Kingdom justice.

Righteousness is not quiet. It speaks. It acts. It stands at the gate and says, “This is wrong,” even when doing so is costly. Revival that never touches the courtroom, the classroom, or the boardroom is not the revival of the prophets—it is a counterfeit.

A Prayer for Sanctified Affection

“Sanctify them in the truth; Your word is truth” (John 17:17, NASB). This is the cry of every heart that longs for more of God. Not more knowledge, not more comfort—but more of Him.

And to have more of Him, we must love what He loves and hate what He hates.

Beloved, this is not a call to become bitter, angry watchdogs. This is a call to become blazing altars. Let the fire of God burn in you until it consumes every unclean thing. Let your affections be purified until you no longer negotiate with sin but grieve over it. Let your heart be so aligned with Heaven that every compromise feels like betrayal.

When that happens, the oil will come. The power will come. The revival will come.

But until then, may our prayer be:

Lord, I want to receive more of the Holy Spirit’s goodness in my life,
yet I recognize today that I still cling to things You hate
and resist that which You love.
Sanctify my affections, that I may experience more and more of You.
Amen.

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Holy Spirit

Holy Fire of God

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There is a fire that the world cannot ignite, a flame that does not consume but purifies. It is not found in the noise of religion or in the pretense of performance. It is born in the sanctuary of surrender, in the stillness where the soul waits for God. It is the Holy Fire of God, and it is calling.

Beloved, let your heart be drawn back to the altar. Before revival ever sweeps the nations, it begins in the secret place. The altar must be rebuilt—not in stone, but in spirit. The sacrifices God seeks are not the burnt offerings of old, but the yielded life: the heart that says, “Not my will, but Yours be done.” There, in that place of humility, the fire descends.

Self-reflection: Have I given God access to every part of my life today—my plans, my schedule, my reactions? What would it look like to lay those on the altar this morning?

The Holy Fire of God is not a passing feeling. It is not a momentary excitement in the soul. It is the Spirit of the living God resting upon a life wholly surrendered. “He must increase, but I must decrease” (John 3:30, NASB). These are not the words of one reaching for greatness, but of one already consumed by glory. The lesser we become, the more He fills. The more He fills, the more the fire spreads.

There is no fire without thirst. “As the deer pants for the water brooks, so my soul pants for You, God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God” (Psalm 42:1–2, NASB). This divine thirst is not satisfied by knowledge, nor quenched by tradition. It presses beyond comfort, past ritual, to the living waters promised by Yeshua: “The one who believes in Me, as the Scripture said, ‘From his innermost being will flow rivers of living water’”(John 7:38, NASB). This He spoke of the Spirit, who was to come.

Self-reflection: Am I spiritually thirsty—or have I learned to live dry? When I wake up, what am I hungering for more: God’s voice, or the noise of the world?

To thirst is to pursue. The Holy Fire of God rests where there is holy desperation. The one who hungers and thirsts for righteousness shall be filled—not with mere words, but with power. Not with empty motions, but with the presence of El Shaddai, the all-sufficient One.

And yet, the fire is not given to decorate a heart still cluttered with idols. “Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and will dine with him, and he with Me” (Revelation 3:20, NASB). He knocks on the door of the Church. He knocks on the door of the heart. But He will not enter without invitation. He waits for the room to be cleared—for burdens to be laid down, for crowns to be surrendered, for distractions to be cast aside. When the heart makes room, the fire falls.

Self-reflection: What am I holding onto that is crowding out God’s presence? Have I created space in my day for Him to speak, or is He still knocking, waiting to be welcomed in?

The fire also burns in the sacred place. It does not always roar; sometimes it glows in quiet glory. “Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10, NASB). There is a fire in stillness, in reverent silence, in the place where the soul is stilled before the majesty of El Elyon, the Most High. Here, the fire does not shout—it speaks in the whisper. It consumes not with noise, but with nearness.

Self-reflection: Do I ever sit quietly in God’s presence, with no agenda? When is the last time I was still and simply listened for His voice?

And in that sacred place, He draws us to the table. “Is the cup of blessing which we bless not a sharing in the blood of Christ? Is the bread which we break not a sharing in the body of Christ?” (1 Corinthians 10:16, NASB). To partake of communion is not to remember only—it is to participate, to enter into the mystery of covenant. The table is more than remembrance. It is a meeting place. The Holy Fire of God is in the covenant, for the blood that was shed still speaks, still calls, still covers.

Self-reflection: How do I honor the covenant of Christ in my daily life? When I eat and drink, do I remember Him only in ritual—or do I live like His blood has changed everything?

But this fire, Beloved, is not meant to stay within. It must break out. It must leap from soul to soul, from gathering to gathering, until the Church becomes a flame in the night. Walls must fall. Ceilings must break. Traditions must tremble before the power of the Spirit. The wind that once rushed through the upper room has not ceased. The tongues of fire that rested on the early disciples have not faded. Heaven still longs to come down.

Self-reflection: Does the fire of God in me spill over into others? Who have I prayed for today? When have I let the Spirit lead me to act, speak, or give beyond myself?

The fire sanctifies. It cleanses. It compels. It says, “Enough with apathy. Enough with passivity. Enough with compromise.” It is not content with weekend religion. It does not abide lukewarm hearts. It seeks the altar of total devotion.

Yeshua does not send His Spirit to comfort the unshaken, but to awaken the slumbering. “Do not quench the Spirit,” Paul writes (1 Thessalonians 5:19, NASB). But how often has the Church traded fire for form, power for politeness, glory for entertainment? The Holy Fire of God does not abide where it is tolerated. It burns where it is welcomed.

So awaken, soul. Fan the flame again. Let your heart become the altar. Let your worship rise like incense, your obedience like kindling. Let every song be a prayer, every breath a surrender, every act of love a spark. For the fire of God is not far. It waits to descend. It waits to consume. It waits to inhabit.

And when it does—when the altar is rebuilt, when the fire falls again—the world will not be able to deny it. They may not understand it. They may not explain it. But they will see it. A Church ablaze cannot be hidden. A people on fire cannot be ignored.

Self-reflection: Am I willing to look foolish to be faithful? Do I still care more about approval or more about fire?

Beloved, return to the fire. Return to the place where your heart first burned with love for God. Let the embers be stirred. Let the Spirit fall afresh. Lay down the distractions. Open the door. Make room. Be still. Partake of the cup. And let the fire burn again.

Prayer

Lord, I lay my heart on the altar. I offer every part of me—my thoughts, my will, my desires—as a living sacrifice. Come and set a fire in my soul that cannot be quenched. Cleanse me with Your holy flame. Burn away every impurity and draw me deeper into Your presence. I thirst for You, O God. I hunger for more. Let Your Spirit rest on me, and let Your fire break out through me, for the sake of Your name and Your glory. In Yeshua’s name, Amen.

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Annointing

The Fragrance of the Anointing

“Therefore God, Your God, has anointed You with the oil of joy above Your companions. All Your robes are fragrant with myrrh and aloes and cassia.”
— Psalm 45:7–8 AMP

Telling the Truth in Love
Truth, when given in love, may crack the jar—but it releases the fragrance of Christ.

Beloved, do you not feel it stirring even now? The scent of something ancient, yet living. Something sacred, yet near. The Fragrance of the Anointing is not of this world. It is not conjured or copied. It descends. It rests. It fills. And it reveals the presence of the Holy One among His people. It is the witness of the Spirit that Christ, the Anointed One, has come and now dwells in the hearts of those who are fully His.

When Mary broke the alabaster jar and poured it out on the feet of Yeshua, the house was filled with fragrance. But it was not only the perfume—it was worship. It was love that could not be restrained. That same fragrance rises again whenever a soul is crushed in surrender and offered in joy. The anointing always smells like love.

Beloved, the anointing oil was not made of random spices. It was myrrh, bitter and prophetic. It was cinnamon and cassia, warm and royal. It was olive oil, crushed and pressed. Every ingredient whispered the story of the Cross before Golgotha was ever seen. When the priests were anointed, it was not to entertain. It was to minister in the presence of a holy God. That oil marked them. It set them apart. And it carried a fragrance that spoke to everyone around them—God has touched this man. God has consecrated this woman.

That same Spirit, Beloved, now rests upon us. Not in part. Not in shadow. But in fire and fullness. “They were all filled with the Holy Spirit” (Acts 2:4). All. Not a few. Not the leaders only. Every hungry heart received. The room shook. Tongues burst forth. But more than signs and wonders, there was a fragrance—a nearness of God that no words could contain.

Stephen, full of the Spirit, gazed into Heaven. Peter, filled with the Spirit, preached with fire and compassion. Paul, overflowing with the Spirit, wrote of the aroma of Christ, saying, “We are a fragrance of Christ to God among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing” (Second Corinthians 2:15 NASB). This is not a metaphor. It is reality. When the Spirit dwells within you, the air around you shifts. Heaven walks into the room.

Beloved, you cannot hide the fragrance of the anointing. It will find its way through every crack and crevice. A brother once tried. He had prayed, surrendered, and the Spirit had filled him. But he resolved to keep silent. Three days passed. His wife touched his arm and said, “What happened to you?” And he broke. His testimony flowed like living water. The fragrance could not be caged. God had filled him, and his life would never be the same.

This is the promise: “You have an anointing from the Holy One” (First John 2:20). And again, “The anointing you received from Him abides in you” (First John 2:27). Not visits. Abides. He remains with those who host Him in humility and love.

What does this fragrance bring, Beloved?

It brings boldness, for the Spirit fills the mouth with the testimony of Jesus.
It brings joy, for the oil of gladness overflows even in trial.
It brings purity, for the presence of God burns away all that does not please Him.
It brings love, for God is love, and He cannot anoint what He does not indwell.
It brings fruit, not manufactured by effort but born through abiding.

This fragrance is the sign of a consecrated life. It cannot be fabricated. It cannot be downloaded or choreographed. It comes only when the vessel is emptied, cleansed, and offered to God without reservation.

O Church, how long will we settle for strategies without presence? How long will we offer light shows when God desires light-filled hearts? We were never called to entertain the lost—we are called to carry the presence of the Living God. Only the fragrance of the anointing can awaken a sleeping world.

She broke her jar—and with it, her pride, her plans, her past. Only in surrender can the fragrance rise. This is where healing begins.

Mary broke her jar. Will you break yours? Will you open your heart so fully that nothing is held back? Will you welcome the Holy Spirit not as a guest, but as your King? The oil only flows where the altar is built. And altars are built with sacrifice.

You say, “What must I do to walk in this anointing?”

Beloved:

  • Consecrate your heart. Let every hidden sin be confessed. Let every idol be torn down. Holiness is not optional. It is the soil in which the anointing grows.
  • Ask and wait. He is not reluctant. “How much more will your Father in heaven give the Holy Spirit to those who ask Him?” (Luke 11:13). Ask. And keep asking.
  • Abide in the Word. The Spirit loves the Word. He wrote it. Let it wash you, shape you, and fill your prayers.
  • Obey quickly. The Spirit’s voice is gentle but sure. The anointed do not delay when He calls.
  • Worship always. Not just with music, but with life. Let every breath declare His worth.

Then, Beloved, the fragrance will come. You will not need to announce yourself. God will announce Himself through you. Rooms will be filled. Hearts will be stirred. Christ will be glorified.

Let the fragrance rise.
Lord, I bring my broken jar
Let it pour upon Your feet
Let the house be filled again
With the scent of love complete

Set me apart for joy and flame
Let my life become the sign
That the Spirit rests on man again
And the oil still flows divine

Closing Prayer

Abba, pour the oil of gladness on Your people once more. Let every weary soul be filled. Let every surrendered heart carry the fragrance of Christ. Anoint us to speak with boldness, to love without fear, and to worship without restraint. Let our churches be filled with Your presence and our cities with Your praise. May the oil never stop flowing. In the name of Yeshua our Messiah, amen.

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Prayers

Let the Oil Flow: A Cry for Radical Transformation

Lord of Hosts, El Shaddai, You are holy and faithful. I come before You broken yet hopeful, asking for radical heart transformation; let the oil flow. “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me” (Psalm 51:10, NASB). Strip away the sin that clings so closely, burn every impurity, and breathe new life into the ashes. “I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you” (Ezekiel 36:26, NASB).

By Your Spirit grant strength, self-control, and perseverance so that I may run to win; let the oil flow. “Since we have so great a cloud of witnesses… let us run with endurance the race set before us” (Hebrews 12:1, NASB). Quench my thirst with living water—“whoever drinks of the water that I will give him shall never thirst” (John 4:14, NASB). Saturate the parched ground of my soul until every root drinks deep of Your grace. You empower the weak and renew the weary, and I trust You to finish what You have begun.

Do not allow my past or present failures to silence the testimony of Your love; let the oil flow. Where the adversary plotted harm, You are the Redeemer who turns it to good. “God causes all things to work together for good to those who love Him” (Romans 8:28, NASB). Make every scar a signpost of mercy and every weakness a doorway for Your strength. Send fresh anointing so that my words and deeds draw the lost to Yeshua.

Teach me to live as continual prayer, breathing praise with every heartbeat. You are the One who calls and the One who completes—“Faithful is He who calls you, and He also will bring it to pass” (1 Thessalonians 5:24, NASB). Less of me, more of You; flood every corner of my life until only Your light remains. In the mighty name of Yeshua, let the oil flow. Amen.

Revival

The Oil Will Flow Again

The oil will flow again. The anointing that once seemed distant will return in power. The presence of El Shaddai will not be restrained. The lamp will not go out in the night. “You have anointed my head with oil; my cup overflows” (Psalm 23:5, NASB). What was dry shall become drenched. What was hollow shall carry fire again.

The river will well up with the water of life. The Spirit is stirring the deep. The cracks in the earth will not stop the flow. From the altar to the nations, the stream is rising. “Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks of the water that I will give him shall never be thirsty” (John 4:13–14, NASB). This water is not seasonal. It is eternal.

All that has been stolen will be restored. Every loss that seemed final—every dream deferred, every promise you buried in silence—He remembers. “I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten” (Joel 2:25, NASB). The thief is being caught, and heaven is releasing repayment sevenfold (Proverbs 6:31).

The Lord is faithful. He is not slow. He is not absent. He is not indifferent. His Word runs swiftly, and His covenant stands firm. “Let us hold firmly to the confession of our hope without wavering, for He who promised is faithful”(Hebrews 10:23, NASB). He will not forget what He whispered in the dark.

And the Lord has sent this. This word is not emotion. It is not hype. It is not borrowed from another season. This is the Lord’s decree. “The Lord gives the command; the women who proclaim good news are a great army” (Psalm 68:11, NASB). (In the original Hebrew, “women” is literal—God is raising up even those the world often overlooks to declare His victory.) Hear it and carry it.

And the glass will shatter.

The illusions will break. The man-made limits will fall. The religious structures that restrained His presence will not stand. “Is not My word like fire,” declares the Lord, “and like a hammer which shatters a rock?” (Jeremiah 23:29, NASB). Let every glass wall between you and His glory be broken.

What separated the upper room from the streets was shattered by the Spirit’s arrival. So it will be again. Not confined. Not constrained. Not tamed. The shattering has begun.

Let the sound of breaking glass awaken the sleeping Church. Let the oil be poured out in fullness. Let the river rise. Let the Bride arise without fear, without blemish, burning with love for her King.

He is coming. Not to patch up what man has built, but to reign in glory.

Prayer

Father, we receive this word with trembling and with faith. Break every barrier, Lord. Shatter every illusion. Let the oil flow freely again over Your people. Let the river of life rise in us, through us, and among us. We ask for restoration where we’ve suffered loss. We ask for power where we’ve grown weak. And we say together—The Lord has sent this. Let it be done, in Yeshua’s Name. Amen.

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Holy Spirit

More and More of the Holy Spirit

Less and Less of Ourselves

“Whoever has ears, let them hear what the Spirit says to the churches.” (Revelation 2:29, AMP)

Seven times, the risen Christ echoes this cry to His people in Revelation. He is not speaking to the pagan, the secular, or the atheist—He is speaking to His Church. “Let them hear” is not a suggestion. It is a summons. And in our generation, this voice still calls through the noise of entertainment-driven services and human-centered strategies: Return. Return to the Holy Spirit. Return to My presence.

The Church Needs More of the Holy Spirit

We have filled our pulpits with polish and our services with precision. We have hired professionals to counsel where the Wonderful Counselor once ministered. We lean on budgets instead of boldness, on marketing instead of the manifestation of the Spirit (1 Corinthians 12:7, NASB). But no spiritual fruit can grow apart from the Vine, and no ministry can be fruitful without the Spirit of God.

“Not by might, nor by power, but by My Spirit,” says the Lord of hosts (Zechariah 4:6, AMP). This is not outdated counsel—it is the very pattern of divine work. Yeshua did nothing independently of the Holy Spirit. At His baptism, the heavens opened, and the Spirit descended upon Him like a dove (Matthew 3:16). From that moment, He moved in the power of the Spirit (Luke 4:14), and only then did He declare, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me, because He has anointed Me” (Luke 4:18, NASB).

If the Son of God waited for the anointing, who are we to operate without it?

More of the Spirit, Less of Ourselves

We are not called to merely imitate Christ—we are called to be filled as He was filled. “Do not get drunk with wine…but be filled with the Spirit” (Ephesians 5:18, NASB). The Greek tense here means continual filling. Why? Because the vessels leak. Because we run dry. Because ministry in the flesh produces only fatigue, but ministry in the Spirit produces fruit (Galatians 5:22–23).

The Apostle Paul was gripped by this truth. He reminded the Corinthians that his preaching was “not with persuasive words of wisdom, but with a demonstration of the Spirit and of power” (1 Corinthians 2:4, NASB). Why? “So that your faith would not rest on the wisdom of mankind, but on the power of God” (v. 5). This is what the Church must recover—faith that rests on the Spirit’s power, not man’s intellect.

Break the Box illustration showing church walls breaking open to light
Among the Seven: One Lamp Unlit — A Silent Warning to the Church at Sardis Let those who have ears hear what the Spirit says to the churches.

A Rebuke to a Church that Has Forgotten

Yeshua rebuked the church in Sardis, saying, “You have a name that you are alive, and yet you are dead” (Revelation 3:1, NASB). How many churches today appear lively, yet are spiritually dry? Lights, crowds, movement—yet no flame from heaven. This is a warning to us. Have we exchanged the breath of the Spirit for the applause of men?

When God warned the prophet Ezekiel, He said, “Son of man, these men have set up their idols in their hearts…” (Ezekiel 14:3, NASB). The idol may not be Baal or Asherah—it may be strategy, personality, numbers, influence. Whatever displaces the Spirit is an idol, and God will not share His glory (Isaiah 42:8).

A Return to Holy Dependence

The early Church did not move without the Spirit. When they chose leaders, it “seemed good to the Holy Spirit and to us” (Acts 15:28, NASB). When they preached, the Spirit cut hearts (Acts 2:37). When they prayed, the place shook and they were filled again (Acts 4:31). This is not mythology. This is the blueprint. And God has not changed.

What has changed is our tolerance for powerlessness. We are content with motion, even if there is no presence. But Moses said, “If Your presence does not go with us, do not lead us up from here” (Exodus 33:15, NASB). Let that cry return to our pulpits, our prayer meetings, our planning rooms: “God, we will not move without You!”

The Lampstand Without Oil

In Zechariah 4, the prophet sees a golden lampstand with a bowl on top and seven lamps. But this vision includes two olive trees feeding oil into the bowl—a picture of continual supply. The angel explains: “Not by might, nor by power, but by My Spirit.” Without the oil, the lamp goes dark. Without the Holy Spirit, the Church flickers and fades.

We are not called to shine by our own strength. The oil must flow again.

O Flame who fell on trembling men,
Descend and fill Your house again.
Not skill, nor plans, nor noble name,
But Spirit-born, consuming flame.

A Call to the Church

Church of Jesus Christ, hear what the Spirit says.

The Lord is calling you back. He is not impressed with our systems, our celebrity leaders, or our technological savvy. He is looking for a people who will tremble at His Word (Isaiah 66:2), who will walk by the Spirit (Galatians 5:16), and who will cry out for His presence above all else.

The time for entertainment is over. The time for powerless religion is past. Judgment begins in the house of God (1 Peter 4:17), and He is looking for churches that will once again host His Spirit in reverence and awe. Return to the Holy Spirit. Return to prayer. Return to waiting. Return to trembling. Return to Him.

Prayer

Holy Spirit, we have tried to lead without listening. We have planned without prayer. We have spoken without waiting. We repent. Return to Your temple, Lord. Cleanse what we’ve corrupted. We do not want revival for the sake of fame, but for the sake of Your glory. Breathe on us again. Let our churches burn with Your fire, and let our hearts be wholly Yours. More of You, Holy Spirit—more and more. And less of us. Amen.

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