Born Below

For the men who were buried before they ever lived

And so I climb—

not toward Olympus,

but toward Zion.

Not to be seen by men,

but to be known by God.

(Psalm 24:3–4)

The mountain mocks me,

high with power, thick with fog.

Boys like me weren’t meant to breathe this air.

We were born with shovels in our hands,

digging graves we thought were gardens.

I once choked on the smog of ambition,

thinking I could swallow the world whole.

But I was born in a valley of bones

(Ezekiel 37),

marked for the pit,

cursed to rise anyway.

Laughed in the face of the wind.

Wept in the arms of the cross.

So I climb.

Not for riches. Not for rest.

But for redemption.

For if I must die—

let it be with scars that tell the truth,

not success that whispers lies.

Let me be crucified with Christ

(Galatians 2:20),

not celebrated in Sodom.

If I must go—

let me sing a psalm of holy defiance,

a funeral song for fallen kings,

a hymn for the ones

who never had crowns

but bore crosses instead.

They died above—

on stages, in pulpits, in trenches.

But they were born below—

in trailer parks, prison cells,

midnight kitchens with mothers who wept.

And still—they rose.

Because the stone was rolled away.