By Pete Greig
So this guy comes up to me and says,
"whats the vision? whats the big idea?"
i opened my mouth and the words came out like this...
The vision is Jesus:
obsessivley, dangeriously, undeniably Jesus.
The vision is an army of young people.
You see bones?
I see an army.
And they are free from materialism-- they laugh at 9-5 little
prisons. They could eat caviar on monday, and crusts
on tuesday they wouldnt even notice. They know the
meaning of the matrix,
the way the west was won.
They are mobile like the wind,
they belong to the nations,
they need no passport.
People who write their addresses in pencil and wonder at their
They are free
yet they are slaves
of the hurting, dirty, and dying.
What is the vision? the vision is holiness that hurts the eyes.
It makes children laugh and adults angry.
It gave up the game of minimum integrity a long time ago to reach
for the stars.
it scorns the good, and strains for the best.
It is dangerously pure.
from every secret motive,
every private conversation.
It loves people away from their suicide leaps, their Satan
This is an ARMY
that would lay down its life for the cause
A million times a day
its soldiers choose to lose that they might one day win in the
of faithful sons and daughters.
Such heroes are as radical
on Monday morning as Sunday night.
They dont need fame for names.
Instead they grin quietly upwards
and hear the crowds chanting again and again:
And this is the sound of the underground, the whisper of
history in the making, foundations shaking ,revolutionaries
dreaming once again.
Mystery is scheming in whispers, conspiracy is breathing...
This is the sound of the underground
And the army is disciple(in)ed -- young people who can beat their
bodies into submission. Every soldier would take a bullet
for his comrade at arms. The tattoo on their backs boasts
"for me to live is Christ and to die again"
Sacrifice fuels the fire
of victory in their upward eyes.
Who can stop them? Can hormones hold them back? Can
Can fear scare them or death kill them?
And the generation prays
like a dying man who groans beyond
talking, with warrior cries,
sulphuric tears and
great barrow loads of laughter!
Whatever it takes they will give:
Breaking the rules,
shaking mediocrity from its cozy little hide,
laying down their rights and their precious little wrongs.
laughing at labels,
The advertisers cannot mold them.
Hollywood can not hold them
Peer Pressure is powerless
to shake their resolve
at late-night parties
before the cockerel cries.
They are incredibly cool,
dangerously attractive (on the inside).
on the outside? they hardly care!
They wear clothes like costumes:
to communicate and celebrate but never hide.
Would they surrender their image and popularity? They
would lay down their very lives, swap deats with the man
on death row, guilty as hell:
a throne for the electric chair.
With blood and sweat and many tears, with sleepless nights
and fruitless days,
they pray as if it all depends on God and live if it all
depends on them.
Their DNA chooses Jesus
(He breathes out, they beathe in).
Their subconcious sings.
They had a blood transfusion with Jesus.
Their words make demons scream in shoping malls. Don't
you hear them coming?
Herald the wierdos!
Summon the losers and the freaks.
Here come the frightened and forgotten
with fire in their eyes!
They walk, and trees applaud,
mountains are dwarfed
by these children of another dimension.
Their prayers summon the Hound of Heaven and invoke the
ancient dream of Eden
And this vision will be.
It will come to pass;
It will come easily;
It will come soon.
How do i know?
Because this is the longing of creation itself, the groaning of
the Spirit, the very dream of God.
Tomorrow is His today.
My distant hope is His 3-D.
And my feeble,
invokes a thunderous
from countless angels,
from heroes of the faith.
from Christ Himself.
And He is the original dreamer,
the ultimate winner,