Fault

If you can't find the reason to hate sin, then you're not in the place to hate God. If you realize the depths of your sins and say, "As if I chose to be a sinner," and then say, "Well, at least there is hope," then take your anger out on sin, and don't use it as an excuse to sin more. If you keep sinning, then your motive is not good, and you can't blame God for your pitfalls in life. That's the end of the explanation.

Proving You're Right

I want to know where your anger goes. Why do you fight others, in order to prove you're right? It must be pride. It must be my pride, that is sinful. That is something I need to rid myself of. "Though I speak with the tongues of men and angels, and have not love, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.
And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith so that I could remove mountains, and have not love, I am nothing." [from book "The Greatest Thing in the World," by Henry Drummond].

The Forrest We Weather, written by Stephanie Har

For Kings, we are fingers with flight, we weather we are forever we are for everything.
Ten years again, we throw away the garbage collected in the corner of our warehouse,
the filthy gas in the decent basement is sour with lice-infestations.
ten years again, we bellow in the hollow of a tree because we can,
we fight the war of death, to the very silk of nature,
the churning, of what we do not fill,
what miserable waiting time for the airplane who declines into the vastness of the mirror,
the streets marked with pain, and the tormenting sound,
the wallowing and bent-over men of children,
old-fashioned, groom without a bride,
hair from heathens,
Wretched sinner,
Emboldened are the ones who find favor and pleasure with the king;
but where are we?
Twenty years ago, we left the states to see the son,
Without a trace, we left the silence behind me,
we ran until we saw wood,
we trampled into the flood,
we strangled our own neighbor,
we fought with such pursuit,
we also almost laid out our feeding dog,
Among the lads of the field, we saw one who was fair, enough to see the light of day,
the one who fought with light,
there was none beside him,
he who fought so valiantly,
we saw his might, his strength and will,
to the rise of the kingdom, we lowered our heads, with reverence we beheld light,
we did not see as we ought to bring his sacrifice, so we lifted his head with old grills,
in the hope that we would be also saved, from the mighty warrior enemy.
Behold, there was a vast kingdom from where we stood, not far from the place of light,
we held his fire like the watchmen waiting on the wall for the morning,
we let the sun take me into darkness for there I could see the morning better,
we could also see the monday dew, from where I was, there the rain stood, open, free, and pounding against my head, and my height was much lower,
There I was, with silent murmurings of voices, whispers of violent, raging seas ahead amid light,
and were not the congregation left blinded by the fright of eve,
for they did no harm.
Today, there are masters who lift their servants with light, the ones who serve faithfully with fight,
we are not mortal beings humanly, but light,
we do not exist on account of men, but on the very single reason that victories for us are won,
for the little sheep, help is no where but just here fervently sitting on like the fire of winning men,
we fervently wait with thanksgiving in heart, mind, and soul. We wait, not wander far.
We wait, we wait, we wander, far, but never to never return,
we well-off are fighting like fervent, life-like, fervent, versus fervent fire verses ourselves. We light like far weather,
into the forrest of inventions.
Who are we, to be givers of life?