rhythm.

I always loved sitting on my throne with
sticks in each hand and ready to hit every single beat.
Year after year, my skills progressed and
the music going in my ears and out into my hands
changed as I played. This wasn’t for the attention.
No way that I would put my pride before my art and
I would never ask for praise to start.
This is for the feeling I get within my body,
a type of feeling that I couldn’t quite explain.
Every beat and crash of a cymbal, every kick of a bass
and bang of a tom was like a kiss to my body.
Everything like a sensational high as I banged away.
But it was still more than a temporary high,
It’s still more than what I can do.

Sitting on a throne, sticks hand in hand and
I know there are eyes on me. I don’t want those eyes,
I don’t want those eyes on me.
My focus of my musical talent was for someone greater than I am.
Someone bigger and greater than storms and kings.
A congregation’s eyes should see an almighty Savior King.
My rhythm leads their hearts, not to me, but to
Him.

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