The Shepherd Through the Ruins of the Day

🔥“The Shepherd Through the Ruins of the Day”🔥

The Lord is our Shepherd, He crushes our pride,

When life kicks our teeth in, He stands by our side.

When the bills stack up and the engine won’t start,

He slices our fear and rewrites the heart.

When the job falls apart and the phone never rings,

When you’re drowning in debt and the shame always stings.

When a brother is silent and one walks away,

He drags us through hell till we learn how to pray.

We walk through the valley where marriages break,

Where friends turn their back and betrayal looks fake.

Where the boss loads his venom and God looks too far,

But the Shepherd breaks darkness like thunder and tar.

He leads the Ten through the nights we can’t sleep,

When anger erupts and the wounds go too deep.

When the words that we speak are a battlefield roar,

He binds us together instead of to war.

Our enemies rise in the mirror each dawn,

Depression, resentment, the fear of “I’m wrong.”

But He slams down His rod on the lies that we breed,

And forces our hearts to admit what we need.

He pours oil on wounds we were scared to confess,

He whispers, “I’m here in this broken mess.”

His love is the weapon that conquers each day,

When the world tries to rip our connection away.

And when traffic is hell and the paycheck is thin,

When temptation calls loud and the old habits win—

He sends us the Ten like a furious storm,

So even in failure, His heart keeps us warm.

Our Shepherd destroys what is killing our soul,

Till the ego surrenders and we become whole.

And united we walk with His name on our breath,

Through life’s darkest valleys and victories of death.

So world you can hit us with everything wrong,

But the Shepherd of Love only makes us strong.

And forever we dwell where our destinies bend,

In the house of the Lord with the fire of the Ten.

Psalms 23 done as a poem

🔥“Though I Walk, I Won’t Break”🔥

(Psalm 23 in the William S. Becker style)

The Lord is my Shepherd, He rips out my fear,

He drags me through hell till my vision is clear.

He breaks my ego like glass on the floor,

Till I crawl on my knees craving only Him more.

He leads me through valleys I never deserved,

Where wolves tear my flesh, so my heart can be served.

He shatters my pride with a rod made of flame,

And burns every excuse I ever used to blame.

I walk through the shadows where death starts to call,

But His Light is a fist that refuses my fall.

My enemies gather, but tremble in shame,

For He feeds me with mercy and humiliates pain.

He pours oil on wounds I once hid like a crime,

He whispers, “You’re Mine,” beyond body and time.

His goodness is violence against every doubt,

Till the darkness inside finally gets driven out.

And when all that I am is no longer my own,

When the Shepherd has stripped me right down to the bone—

His house is the place where the broken hearts dine,

Where the cup overflows with His fury divine.

So take every fear, every lie, every sting,

My Shepherd is death to the ego I cling.

And I swear with my blood and the breath in my chest,

I will rise from the grave and be held in His Rest.

The Potion of Death In My Coffee Cup

🔥 “THE POTION OF DEATH IN MY COFFEE CUP” — a poem on Baal HaSulam’s warning 🔥

I wake each morning thinking I’m fine,

But poison drips from this heart of mine.

I open a sefer, pretend I’m clean—

Yet every thought screams, “What’s in it for me?” unseen.

Baal HaSulam shouts through the page with fire,

“Your exile drags on because of your own desire!”

Not Rome, not Babylon, not some king’s decree—

It’s my damn craving for honor that chains all of me.

I study, I pray, I smile at the friends,

But inside I’m calculating dividends.

The Torah in my hands is supposed to give life—

Yet mis-aimed, it cuts me open like a knife.

He says there’s an oath written in heaven’s air,

That mercy won’t rise till my heart learns to care.

Not for reward, not for comfort or gain,

But just to give Him pleasure—through joy or pain.

I sip my morning coffee like it’s holy ground,

But it burns like death when ego is crowned.

For the Torah becomes poison, the sages all say,

When I twist it to shine on me in some hidden way.

I slam the cabinet when the filter is stuck,

Cursing the world for my lack of luck.

Yet in that moment the Zohar screams, “See?

Even now you’re demanding the world serve thee!”

I scroll through my phone while pretending to yearn,

Waiting for someone to praise my concern—

But Baal HaSulam whispers, “Son, don’t you know?

This is exactly how souls stay stuck below.”

Lo Lishma is the exile lingering in my bones,

The reason the world cries in unheard tones.

Every cheap desire I refuse to release

Delays the coming of love, delays universal peace.

And when I treat Torah like a vending machine,

Hoping for comfort, for calm, to stay clean,

It bitterly flips into potion of death—

Robbing my heart of spirit, my lungs of breath.

But Lishma—oh God—when a man rarely ascends,

When his chest breaks open for the sake of his friends,

Then suddenly mercy wakes like a lion from sleep,

And the exile cracks open from our cries so deep.

So here I am naked, Creator—no lies.

No angel in me, no holy disguise.

Just a man with an ego sharp as a blade,

Begging You to love the heart You made.

Teach me to study for Your delight,

To pray for the ten in the dead of night,

To breathe for the world and not for my skin,

And to die to myself so the Light can begin.

Until then I walk with trembling breath,

For Torah mis-aimed is a potion of death.

But aimed at You—Lishma, pure and bright—

It resurrects my corpse and floods me with Light.

🔥 “The Middle Line Cuts Me Open”  🔥

I wake each morning torn in two,

One side says rise, the other says you’ll never break through.

The right whispers, “Brother, the Creator is always right,”

The left hisses, “Look at your failures—you lost the fight.”

I sip my coffee, feel the burn in my chest,

Right line says, Thank Him, left line says, you’re a mess.

I drop the mug; it shatters like my fragile belief,

Right says, “This too is Providence,” left says, “your life is grief.”

I drive to work and someone cuts me off on the street,

Right says, embrace him, left screams, destroy the cheat!

I choke down the venom boiling inside,

Right says, “Annul,” left says, “open wide.”

I enter the Ten and see their faces glowing bright,

Right says, love them, left says, pick one to fight.

Right tells me, “The Creator is perfect; justify Him now,”

Left says, “You’re broken—tell Him to show you how.”

I read Baal HaSulam: Clean and righteous do not kill,

Right says, “Accept above reason,” left says, “you never will.”

Right tells me, “A judge sees only what stands in his sight,”

Left tells me, “Then look at yourself—you are not alright.”

Rabash stabs deeper: “Take the two lines and unite,”

Right says, go faith, left says, see your plight.

How do I hold peace when both scream in my ear?

Right says, “It’s love,” left says, “you should fear.”

The battle bleeds out into daily things I do—

In the grocery line, in traffic, in words I choose.

Right says, “Smile,” left says, “they don’t deserve your grin,”

Right says, “Bestow,” left says, “protect your skin.”

I drop to my knees when no one’s around to see,

Right says, “He’s with you,” left says, “you’ll never be free.”

I cry like a child who lost all he had,

Right says, “This is birth,” left says, “you’re just sad.”

But then—

In the smallest crack between the screams and the doubt,

A whisper breaks through the war inside, and it shouts:

The middle line is forged from both blood and grace,

A peace carved by fire in the darkest place.

Right says, “Cling to Him,” left says, “feel your lack,”

The middle line says, “Brother, hold both—don’t turn back.”

Right says, “He is good,” left says, “you’re wrecked and flawed,”

The middle says, “With both truths you finally walk toward God.”

The middle line is the prayer you choke through your tears,

When the Creator feels close and far in the same trembling breath of fear.

It is the heart ripped open but still choosing to mend—

The path where suffering kisses faith and calls it friend.

So here I stand—right arm in heaven, left arm in hell,

Trying to balance what no human tongue can tell.

Right says, “You’re His son,” left says, “you should hide,”

The middle line says, “Walk straight—He’s at your side.”

And if tomorrow the flood of water rises again,

If the doubts drown reason, and the storms cut through men—

I’ll take both lines, bind them tight, hold the pain as my guide,

For only a torn heart can let the Creator inside.

Version 2 a poem from Psalms 3

PSALM 3 — The Savage Version

I wake to a war that never lets go,

Enemies rising inside me like a tidal undertow.

They whisper, “You’re nothing, you’ll never ascend,”

Poisoning my faith from beginning to end.

They shout, “Your Creator won’t bother to save!”

As they drag my heart toward its own grave.

These voices aren’t strangers—they live in my chest,

Ego-born demons denying me rest.

But You, Creator, are the shield I can’t see,

Lifting my broken head back toward Thee.

Your light cuts through the filth on my skin,

Burning the falsehoods I buried within.

I fall into sleep surrounded by fear,

But You pull me up when dawn draws near.

For every breath I take is not truly mine,

It flows from Your heart through the love of the Nine.

Ten thousand thoughts try to tear me apart,

But they shatter like glass on the stone of the heart.

When I lean on my brothers and drop all pretense,

Your salvation floods in and knocks down the fence.

Creator, smash the teeth of the serpent I feed,

Break the illusion stitched from my greed.

Strip off my armor, expose every flaw,

I’m begging You, tear the lie from its jaw.

For salvation is Yours—it can’t be claimed,

Only revealed when the ego is tamed.

Bless the Ten with a love the world can’t ignore,

Where “I” disappears and “WE” becomes more.

poem from Psalms 3

**PSALM 3 **

My enemies rise like storms in the night,

Whispering lies to choke out the Light.

They say, “Your salvation will never appear,”

Trying to plant their venomous fear.

But You, my Creator, are my shield in the fight,

You lift up my head and restore inner sight.

I cry out in darkness, You answer in flame,

Burning my doubts, exposing my shame.

I lay down surrounded by shadows so deep,

Yet somehow I breathe… somehow I sleep.

For You hold my heartbeat inside Your hand,

And raise me again with a silent command.

Ten thousand voices rise against me to scream,

But their noise dissolves like a half-dead dream.

For when I'm with my brothers, heart next to heart,

Their unity tears all illusions apart.

Creator, break the teeth of the lies in my mind,

Crush the illusions that keep me blind.

Rip out the ego that hisses inside,

The serpent that never stops selling its pride.

Salvation is Yours—never bought, never earned,

Only revealed when the vessel is burned.

And the blessing descends on the Ten’s open door,

Where “I” disappears, and love becomes more.

Prayer Without Pride

I crawl to You, Creator, stripped of every lie,

My ego claws for credit, begging You to glorify.

It howls inside my chest, demanding “Look at me!”

But I beg You—kill that beast so only love can be.

I’m tired of my prayers that stink of selfish gain,

They’re soaked in hidden motives, dipped in secret shame.

I want to cry for friends, not for the throne I crave,

Burn every trace of honor—leave nothing left to save.

Let every word I utter tear the ego from my throat,

Let my heart be just a vessel—not a king, not a boat.

No comfort, no reward, no sweet illusion’s light,

Just faith above all reason as I bleed for what is right.

I want a prayer of fire, not this hollow, begging plea,

A cry that lifts my brothers—never glorifies me.

So smash the pride inside me till I’m dust upon the floor,

And let the Ten be everything… I don't exist anymore.

Creator, take my intention—crush it, bend it, make it true,

Let my prayer be pure bestowal, flowing only back to You.

No honor, no illusion, nothing selfish left to bear—

Just friends inside my heartbeat… and Your love in every prayer.