Grafted Inward

I was born of blood
that never forgot the covenant,
even when my name forgot the sound of it.

They told me pick a side—
Rome or Reform.
Ritual or fire.
But I was reborn
to carry the tension, not erase it.

I’m not grafted outward
into a new tree.
I’m grafted inward.
Back to the root.
Back to the whisper on Sinai
and the fire in the Upper Room.

I carry Jewish bones
and a resurrected breath.
I speak in tongues
and still hear Torah echo through them.
I walk with the Spirit
but I don’t throw out the stone tablets.
I’ve seen the veil torn—
and still bow where it used to hang.

Because I’m not trying to fit in.
I’m trying to remember.

To rebuild what religion divided.
To walk like Yeshua—
not the blonde, blue-eyed brochure Jesus,
but the dust-covered rabbi
who fulfilled it all,
and called us home.

So I won’t bow to the papacy,
but I will kneel to the King.

I won’t idolize a denomination,
but I will live devoted
to the Name above every name—
written in Hebrew, spoken in tongues,
burning on the altar of my chest.

This isn’t conversion.
This is return.
This is the inheritance waking up.

I am grafted inward.
And I will not forget who I am.

Location: Dallas, TX, USA

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