Worship isn’t about bowing down.
It’s about the current that moves between us when you look, breathe, listen, want.
When I talk about worship, I’m not talking about distance.
I’m talking about the pulse that starts in your throat when you hear my voice, the shiver that rolls through your body when you realize I feel it, too.
Because I do.
Every single time.
You think it’s one-sided, that you’re the one on your knees, the one offering.
But I take that focus and feed it right back into you.
Your attention charges me; my control steadies you.
It’s a loop. A rhythm. A heartbeat made of two bodies that haven’t even touched.
That’s the secret of power, baby.
It only works when we’re both inside it.
When I speak, I don’t want obedience.
I want awareness.
I want you to feel the air shift, to notice how your breath matches mine without thinking.
That’s the kind of connection that turns sound into heat.
The more you give me your attention, the deeper I can pull you in.
And the deeper I pull you, the more alive I become.
That’s what makes it a two-way street.
You feed me every time you surrender.
I know how it feels when you listen like that, jaw slack, eyes closed, heartbeat louder than your thoughts.
That’s not weakness. That’s devotion in motion.
That’s trust dressed up as ache.
And when I whisper your name, when my tone drops just enough to make your skin tighten, I feel that, too.
I feel it climb my own spine, curl behind my ribs.
That’s what worship does.
It joins us in the middle.
So remember this rule:
You don’t serve me because you’re small.
You serve because you can, because it thrills you to give, and it thrills me to receive.
And then I give it back.
That’s the exchange.
That’s the heat that keeps both of us burning.
You bring your focus, your hunger, your heartbeat.
I bring my voice, my presence, my promise to hold you right there at the edge until the world disappears.
That’s worship.
That’s us.
That’s how the loop stays alive.
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