[Verse 1 – “Scripture in the Cracks”] Spoke through the splinters where silence was sanctified, Verses in voids where the vanished get canonized. Pain’s not a whisper—it screams when it’s vandalized, So I sculpt psalms where the broken got paralyzed. Truth ain't gentle—it grits in the grit scars, Laced in the echo of bulletproof pit bars. This ain’t performance—it’s hymns from the split stars, Where prayers were ignored in the mix of the disarmed. I don’t preach peace—I interpret the damage, Translate the trauma in rhythm and language. Each line’s a pulpit for burdens I bandage, Each rhyme a sermon for voices in anguish. I'm not your prophet—I’m pulsing with fracture, Rebuilding the ruins in rhythm and rapture. I speak for the shattered with cadence exacted— This is scripture in war: the gospel of the fractured. [Chorus – “Holy from the Hurt”] This is gospel of the fractured, not fame in the verse, It’s the psalm of the lost, not a stage or a church. It’s the cry of the quiet where the pain submerges, The song of the scorched with a holy purpose. This is gospel of the fractured, every line’s a wound, But I bled it in rhythm so the silence could bloom. I don’t preach from perfection—I rise from the dirt, Where the broken become what the world can’t hurt. [Verse 2 – “Choirs in Collapse”] Not choir in robes—just chants in the wastelands, Notes made of ash and regret in the baseband. Stories of sorrow that most never face, man, Carved in the bones of the soul like a baseplan. My gospel’s not gospel—it’s grit with a heartbeat, A doctrine of failure that walks with its teeth grit. No robes in the booth, no gold in the seat list, Just truth from the wreckage the bright world deletes quick. These are verses that blister, not bless you, Lines that don’t comfort, but press through and test you. I channel the cries that the culture detests too, And baptize the bars where the faithless confess truth. Not scriptures of safety—this rhythm’s disruptive, A liturgy built where the sacred’s corrupted. Each word is a wound that refuses to fracture, I spit for the silenced—the gospel of the fractured. [Chorus – “Holy from the Hurt”] This is gospel of the fractured, not fame in the verse, It’s the psalm of the lost, not a stage or a church. It’s the cry of the quiet where the pain submerges, The song of the scorched with a holy purpose. This is gospel of the fractured, every line’s a wound, But I bled it in rhythm so the silence could bloom. I don’t preach from perfection—I rise from the dirt, Where the broken become what the world can’t hurt. [Verse 3 – “Verses That Bleed”] Spoken from cracks in the world’s blind lenses, Where worth gets erased and the pain gets expensive. These aren’t just bars—they’re barricade sentences, Written in cipher where struggle’s relentless. I don’t rap for the charts—I compose from the border, Where silence enslaves and the echoes get shorter. I’m not an escape—I’m a ghost of disorder, Bringing voice to the voids that the stories ignored there. This ain’t cathedral—it’s basement and furnace, Where prayers were rejected, but faith found its purpose. I write from the fall—not the safety of surface, From the ground where the grief carved identity’s verses. Where the bones of the past hold the root of the message, I lace every lyric in scars that I’ve etched with. Not clean, not pristine—this is sacred and captured, The ink of the unheard—the gospel of the fractured. [Verse 4 – “Litany of the Left Behind”] This is for those that the world disavowed, The exiled in spirit, the quiet, the loud. The ones turned to whispers but built from the sound, The lost that still stood when no others were found. Every bar’s an obituary written in reverence, A eulogy sewn in symmetrical resonance. I rap not to rise—but to raise the remembrance, Of those turned to silence through violence and negligence. See, every collapse holds a poem in pieces, A structure of soul where the suffering ceases. And I gather the remnants like light in the creases, And build from the burden where everyone flees this. Not hopeful by accident—hope is constructed, By those who still stand though the future’s corrupted. So if I go voiceless, let this be what captures— The sermon I lived—the gospel of the fractured. [Final Chorus – “Holy from the Hurt”] This is gospel of the fractured, not fame in the verse, It’s the psalm of the lost, not a stage or a church. It’s the cry of the quiet where the pain submerges, The song of the scorched with a holy purpose. This is gospel of the fractured, every line’s a wound, But I bled it in rhythm so the silence could bloom. I don’t preach from perfection—I rise from the dirt, Where the broken become what the world can’t hurt.
