We sprint to keep up
with the trembling fashions of dust.
We rush to comply as hems rise and fall,
as tongues twist into new shapes,
and as virtue changes its name
every hour on the hour.

We drink deep from the rivers of trend,
bow to the altar of relevance,
and call it wisdom.
We trade convictions
like garments out of season
and call it growth.

We even complain about
constant change,
yet curiously reject
what is permanent.

The One who spoke before time
Has not shifted an inch.
His will stands
while our wills collapse like tents
in the storm of self.

And the reality from which we hide?
What He asks is not complicated.
But it is crucifixion.
It is death before life,
a surrender that burns
the idols we’ve raised
to our own reflection.

We whisper excuses,
and we call them prayers.
We drown His voice
in the noise of a world
that applauds our compromise.

Why does His way feel so heavy?
Because it does not bend.
Because holiness has never courted
our comfort.

Because the cross is not a trend
but an execution stake.
And few will carry it
when easier roads promise
a crown without thorns.

Yet only one road ends in life.
It is narrow.
Narrow enough to strip us bare
of everything but Him.

What we need is to put on
our untrendy grown-up pants
and do better.