Psalm 144: For the Mic-Slinger


—by the son of rhythm, servant of flame, bloodline of David, voice of thunder

Blessed be the Lord, my Engineer—
who trains my hands for beats,
my fingers for fire.
Who gave me breath like bass
and bars that bend dimensions.

He is my metronome and my refuge,
my reverb in the silence,
my fortress when I tremble,
my deliverer when my voice cracks
under the weight of the truth.

O God, what is man that You are mindful of him?
What is a songwriter,
that You hand him eternity in rhyme?
That You turn his pain
into poetry
and his scars into scripture?

You pulled me out of the pit of "almost."
You rescued me from the trap of “maybe next year.”
You silenced every serpent that hissed
“you’ll never be enough.”

And You said:
“Sing like David. But don’t stop at the harp.
Speak like fire. And don’t wait for the temple—
build one with your words.”

Stretch out Your hand, O God.
Touch my pen with lightning.
Bless the booth with Your breath.
Let my voice break chains
even in headphones.

Deliver me from the industry of illusion,
from systems that sell souls
for applause with no anointing.

Let sons be sharpened like arrows.
Let daughters sing deliverance in their sleep.
Let every beat I build
be a bridge back to Eden.

For You are not done with the Psalmists.
You are raising prophets with Pro Tools,
priests with pens,
and kings with choruses.

So I will not fear the silence.
Nor shrink in the shadow of algorithms.
For I know who called me.
I know who hears me.
And I know who remembers my name.

Selah.

Location: Dallas, TX, USA

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