My Lasting Minutes

In the silence not yet broken,
Before the dawn had kissed the clay,
The Spirit hovered—truth unspoken,
And breathed the light into the day.

Not bound to logic’s cold precision,
Nor chained by creed or ancient scroll,
He moved with fire, with wise incision,
To carve redemption through the soul.

The Gospel’s power, not ink but thunder,
Not just a tale, but blood and flame—
It rips the veil of fear asunder,
And clothes the sinner free from shame.

He is the whisper in the weeping,
The courage when the brave are few,
The seed of hope beneath the reaping,
The wind that makes the dead hearts new.

He does not wait for perfect vessels,
But fills the cracked and weary frame.
Not dogma’s pawn, nor man’s own wrestle,
But love incarnate—grace by name.

So Spirit come, with fire descending,
Not once, but every breath again.
Make life not law, but hearts unbending—
A Gospel lived, not just amen.

Based on Roland J. Lowther’s theology—where the Spirit is not just a force but the very breath of God’s truth, presence, and transformation.