You’re my Jesus. Like, minus the beard and the robes.

My Personal Messiah.

You didn’t turn water into wine but you’ve turned moments into forever and I’m still drunk with the memories.

You don’t have the power to calm the raging seas but you can bring sunshine with a smile; I swear, you do.

Jesus was the Word made man, and you’re dreams and fantasy in flesh that I can touch but never hold.

You can’t walk on water but you walked through puddles to meet me under the rain so I guess it counts.

You can’t drive out demons.
But for some reason you can make mine shut up when you’re near.

There are days when I can’t even trust my own religion, because despite its warmth it leaves me feeling cold, and there are days when a prayer sounds like an interrogation, and I bleed to tell my sins, but you smile and tell me forgiveness and redemption was a choice for a chance at a second try.

You didn’t die on the cross.
You didn’t go and become a big hero; a sacrifice for what they believed was saving grace.
Instead you stayed.
Perhaps it’s selfish to call it personal salvation, but personal salvation it is because I’m still here because of you.

You are my Jesus.
You don’t need the robes, and you especially don’t need the beard.
You have saved me from myself.



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