They’d hang you for less—  

A whisper, a page,  

A prayer thought wrong.  

 

But here,  

The air doesn’t flinch—hit  

When I say Jesus.  

No cell door slams hung shut.  

 

Don’t tell me it’s nothing.  

Freedom’s not soft—  

It’s bone and blood broken,  

The right to speak  

Without checking who’s listening.  

 

I could take His name downtown—  

Let it rise off the marble steps up  

Where the courthouse hums with old laws drawn.  

Paint it on the bridge that divides  

What we were and what we claim to be.  

Watch workers slow their trucks to look,  

A siren yawn past like it’s nothing.  

 

Because here, for now,  

No badge stops breath—  

And that still feels holy—detatched.  

 

That’s not luck.  

That’s legacy,  

Paid in centuries of ash and shot—  

Bodies that whispered no more fear gone.  

 

So if I call Him Christ,  

I mean it like a battle cry—waging—  

Not meek, not safe,  

But mine,  

The way a man owns breath—gasping.  

 

They mock the Word now—  

Call it old, call it poison,  

Name faith a fool’s habit.  

 

But they do it safe,  

Under neon, on screens,  

Forgetting bloodshed bought them silence  

And called it freedom.  

 

They forget the graves—emptied  

Where prayer was contraband,  

Where the tongue was a noose—tightened.  

 

I see it coming back—  

In whispers,  

In rules dressed as progress,  

In fear with a new flag—draped.  

 

Don’t smile and tell me  

The battle’s done.  

I hear chains  

Clink in language,  

In laws soft as velvet,  

Sharp as razors.  

 

Still, I’ll speak His name—  

Jesus Christ—  

Not as slogan  

But defiance.  

 

If they hate me for it,  

So be it.  

I’ve seen worse men fall  

For lesser truths.  

 

This breath is mine.  

This word is free.  

That was the deal.  

And I won’t forget it  

while there’s air to shout,  

 

JESUS IS HIS NAME!