Between Dust and Mercy
Because the Cross already spoke louder.
Fear,
you don’t knock.
You barge in.
Uninvited. Unwanted. Unrelenting.
You crawl into hospital rooms
and whisper worst-case endings.
You sit in empty chairs
and remind me who’s not coming back.
You stand over unpaid bills,
laughing at my “faith.”
You even slip into my prayers,
turning every Amen into What if…
You wear many masks.
Sometimes you pretend to protect me.
Sometimes you sound like “caution.”
But I know you now—
you’re not a shield.
You’re a thief.
You rob joy before tomorrow even arrives.
You strangle peace with possibilities that may never happen.
You bury me alive with shadows that don’t even exist.
But listen—
you don’t own me.
Because there was a day
you were dragged to a hill called Calvary.
You watched Love bleed.
You watched Hope suffocate.
You thought you had the final word.
But then,
Jesus spoke:
“It is finished.”
And in that breath,
your chains shattered.
Your throne cracked.
Your lies lost their voice.
So, Fear,
scream all you want.
Knock at midnight.
Sit heavy on my chest.
Fear, your voice ended on a Friday.
Resurrection stole your echo