The Ethiopian Bible Reveals What Jesus Said to His Disciples After His Resurrection

High in the mountains of Ethiopia, beyond vast deserts and centuries of silence, a forgotten monastery guards something that the world was never meant to read.

It is not a mere relic or myth, but the profound words of a risen man—words attributed to Jesus himself during the 40 days following his resurrection.

This period, often glossed over in the canonical gospels, holds a treasure trove of teachings that could reshape our understanding of faith and spirituality.

In 1998, a Spanish researcher embarked on an arduous journey to a 7,000-foot plateau called Debra Dammo.

Ascending with the help of a rope made from camel leather, he entered the ancient stone walls of a monastery where a white-bearded monk revealed a leather-bound book written in the lost language of Ge’ez.

This sacred text, known as the Book of the Covenant, contained revelations that would challenge every certainty he held about Christianity.

The portrayal of Jesus found within these pages is unlike any seen in Western scripture—fierce, prophetic, and heartbreakingly human.

He spoke of a church that would one day forget his voice and of a truth that could never be buried.

This is the story of those forbidden 40 days and the hidden gospel beneath the mountains of Ethiopia.

When the monk at Debra Dammo untied the carved wooden case and opened the ancient parchment, the air was thick with the scent of smoke and beeswax.

The researcher expected another apocryphal fragment, a curiosity for scholars.

Instead, he discovered a gospel written in a rhythm long forgotten, a voice that spoke not from antiquity but from eternity itself.

The narrative begins where every Western Bible falls silent.

After the resurrection, the canonical gospels provide only a brief account of Jesus appearing, blessing his disciples, and ascending to heaven.

The 40 days are reduced to a few sentences, as if nothing significant occurred between the empty tomb and the clouds of Bethany.

However, these Ethiopian pages fill that silence with fire.

They ᴀssert that those 40 days were a school of revelation, a final download of truth before heaven reclaimed its teacher.

Why would such a story vanish? The answer may lie not in theology but in fear.

For an empire striving to control a new religion, 40 days of unfiltered revolutionary teaching posed a significant threat.

Thus, the silence became official.

Yet in Ethiopia, where desert and mountain safeguarded the faith, the silence was never complete.

According to the Book of the Covenant, the risen Christ no longer spoke like a wandering rabbi; he spoke like a king who had walked through death and returned with an authority that no army could challenge.

His first recorded words struck like lightning: “I have conquered death. The enemy is broken. Go now—not with swords of iron, but with the fire of the spirit.”

This was not the gentle shepherd of Sunday school paintings; this was the leader of a spiritual uprising—not against governments but against the empires within the human heart.

He tells his followers that the real battlefield will not be Jerusalem or Rome but the conscience of every soul.

Then comes a prophecy so precise it chills the reader: “There will come a time when my own words are twisted. Temples of gold will rise while the temple of the soul lies in ruin. Many will speak my name, but few will carry my truth.”

When the researcher heard these lines translated aloud, he felt the room shrink.

The monk’s voice trembled, and even the candles seemed to dim.

Could Jesus have foreseen a future where his church would trade simplicity for splendor? The idea was unthinkable, yet history seemed to confirm it.

Look around any modern city—cathedrals taller than the poor can reach, television preachers crowned with spotlights, faith marketed like fashion.

Was this the corruption he warned about?

To understand this, we must revisit the 4th century, when Christianity had just been legalized.

Bishops debated, emperors presided, and the Bible was sculpted into an instrument of order.

Councils decided which voices were divine and which would burn.

Mystical writings that spoke of direct communion with God were branded dangerous because they left no room for gatekeepers.

Yet Ethiopia remained beyond their reach.

Its mountains and deserts formed a natural fortress, allowing a unique church to grow with its own rhythm and canon.

While European libraries purged heretical scrolls, Ethiopian monks dedicated their lives to copying them by hand, generation after generation.

In the ancient script of Ge’ez, preservation was prayer.

Each stroke of ink was an act of resistance against forgetting.

Perhaps that’s why this story matters now.

In an age when digital information can vanish with a single click, these monks remind us that truth sometimes survives only because someone refuses to stop writing.

In the Book of the Covenant, Jesus does not perform new miracles; he teaches.

He describes unseen realms, the architecture of the soul, and the invisible war between clarity and confusion.

He tells his disciples, “The spirit is not a visitor but your breath. Every thought you form shapes eternity.”

Modern neuroscience might label this neuroplasticity, the way thoughts rewire the brain.

Two thousand years ago, he called it the ladder of the heart.

Such pᴀssages transform faith from mere obedience to profound transformation.

They suggest that salvation is not a ticket issued by clergy but a daily recreation of consciousness.

This idea, more than any heresy, threatened the empire’s logic.

If every human carries a temple inside, who needs marble cathedrals?

If every mind can host the divine, who needs a mediator?

The silence of the 40 days begins to make sense.

Centuries later, Christian hermits in Egypt and Syria would teach that every thought has three sources: divine, human, or demonic, and that spiritual life means learning to discern which is which.

They built entire disciplines of inner awareness.

Where did they learn it?

Scholars never knew, but these Ethiopian manuscripts hint at an origin—the resurrected Christ himself.

If true, that would mean monasticism wasn’t an innovation but a continuation—the afterglow of lessons given in those missing 40 days.

The same pattern repeats across history.

The deeper the message, the more quietly it must travel.

Later in the manuscript, Jesus warns that truth will be buried under applause and that his name will be sold for profit.

He describes a future where religion would ally with kings and merchants, where his face would be repainted to suit the powerful.

Reading those lines today feels less like ancient prophecy and more like modern commentary—an echo of the struggles faced throughout history.

Yet the text refuses despair.

It promises that when faith becomes merchandise, his voice will rise again from the margins, from deserts, prisons, and forgotten hearts.

“Truth cannot die. It is both the seed and the sword,” he declares.

The monk closed the book and looked at the visitor.

“Do you see now?” he asked softly.

“Why our fathers hid these words?”

The researcher could only nod.

The pages in his hands were not just history; they were a mirror reflecting the present.

When the researcher left Debra Dammo, the mountain winds followed him like a whisper: “Guard what you’ve seen, but do not hide it.”

He thought his journey was over, but Ethiopia had more secrets to reveal.

Two weeks later, he reached Axum, an ancient capital whose ruins still echo with the rhythm of forgotten prayers.

There, in another monastery, he was handed a text called the Dascalia.

The teachings within it were radical.

Unlike the Book of the Covenant, which spoke of revelation, the Dascalia spoke of practice—how to live once revelation had been received.

It wasn’t abstract theology; it was a manifesto.

Jesus’s words, as recorded here, overturned everything the later church built upon.

“Live in radical simplicity. Do not serve kings or merchants, for they build their wealth on the blood of the poor. Do not imitate the scribes of the future, who will wear white robes but devour the houses of widows.”

It was as if he had looked straight through time and described the corruption that would soon follow his name.

The researcher realized this wasn’t heresy—it was foresight.

By the 4th century, Christianity had traded persecution for privilege.

The cross that once symbolized rebellion against power now gleamed on imperial banners.

Councils declared which gospels were true, not always by divine discernment but by political convenience.

Those who insisted on a freer mystical path were branded heretics.

Three forces drove the censorship: political control, cultural rationalism, and fear.

Texts that taught each person could encounter God directly were a threat.

A faith without hierarchy could not be taxed, drafted, or ruled.

Rome wanted a religion that could debate in the forms of philosophers—orderly, logical, respectable.

Ecstatic visions of angels and inner illumination embarrᴀssed the elites.

If believers realized the kingdom of God was within them, they might no longer obey earthly kingdoms pretending to represent it.

Thus, the editing began.

Some texts were softened; others vanished in smoke.

But Ethiopia, distant and defiant, refused to surrender its spiritual archives.

While Rome built cathedrals of marble, Ethiopia carved churches straight into stone.

Maybe that’s the irony of history: those who had the gold lost the gospel, while those who had nothing kept its fire alive.

In these Ethiopian writings, Jesus warns that insтιтutional religion would eventually become its own idol.

He tells his disciples, “Priests will arise who speak my name but do not know me. They will build palaces while neglecting the temple within.”

The message is simple: when religion serves authority instead of truth, it ceases to be divine.

One elderly monk told the researcher something unforgettable: “Your fathers in faith feared the truth. They feared what Jesus really said. Because if people knew, they could no longer be controlled.”

That single sentence condenses 16 centuries of censorship.

It’s a pattern repeated in every age: prophets unsettle insтιтutions, and insтιтutions erase prophets.

Hidden in these texts is a definition of faith that feels closer to a revolution than a religion.

Jesus calls his followers to reject accumulation, refuse the company of tyrants, and serve those the world discards.

He promises his presence not in cathedrals or courts but among prisoners, widows, and the brokenhearted.

“Blessed are those who suffer for my name,” he says, “not in speeches, but in silence. For I am with them in places no man sees—in the prisons, the midnight tears, the loneliness of the rejected.”

For the researcher, these lines redefined holiness.

It was no longer about ceremonies or rank, but about endurance, compᴀssion, and secret faith.

It sounded less like the theology of power and more like the poetry of love.

When compared to the medieval church, with popes living as emperors and bishops leading armies, the contrast is unbearable.

When the researcher returned home and tried to share his findings, the reactions were predictable.

Scholars dismissed them as apocrypha.

Clergy warned, “Don’t confuse the faithful.”

But what they really meant was, “Don’t disturb the order.”

Yet he couldn’t shake one question: if the church claims to preserve truth, why would it fear more of it?

He remembered what the monk in Axum had said: “Truth does not require belief to exist. We copied these texts with our hands so they would survive until the world needed them.”

That statement haunted him because what if that time—the time of need—was now?

After all, we live in an age drowning in information but starving for wisdom.

Maybe those mountain manuscripts weren’t preserved for the past but for us.

The Dascalia ends with a promise and a warning: the promise that truth will rise again from the children of slaves, from the deserts and forgotten places; the warning that when religion forgets compᴀssion, God will choose the poor to speak for him again.

In that line, the researcher saw a mirror of our age, where faith sometimes becomes brand and brand becomes idol.

But he also saw hope that renewal always begins from below—from those without status or platform, from those who pray in silence and still dare to love.

That’s the paradox of the Christian story: when the powerful fall silent, the forgotten begin to sing.

The monastery at Axum grew quiet as night fell.

The researcher couldn’t sleep; every word he had read was burning in his mind.

What if the world’s greatest secret wasn’t hidden under stone but inside every human heart?

He stepped outside into the cool mountain air.

Above him, the Milky Way shimmered like a bridge of light—a silent testimony that eternity still speaks if we only learn how to listen.

According to the Ethiopian texts, this was precisely what Jesus attempted to teach during those 40 forgotten days.

In the Book of the Covenant, Jesus speaks of prayer in a way no cathedral sermon ever could: “When you pray, do not think that only your lips speak to God. Your breath prays, your silence prays, your body prays. Let your whole being become a living prayer.”

This vision collapses the boundary between spirituality and biology; the act of breathing itself becomes sacred—a meeting point between the material and the divine.

In one sense, it mirrors the contemplative prayer of the heart, practiced centuries later by Eastern monks who whispered, “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.”

But here, in the Ethiopian version, the teaching feels older, rarer, almost pre-Christian in its purity.

Jesus tells his disciples that silence is not the absence of faith; it is its highest form.

When the noise of the mind quiets, he says, the spirit begins to speak in the spaces between thoughts.

If that’s true, then maybe prayer isn’t about words reaching heaven; it’s about heaven reaching us when we stop talking long enough to hear it.

The manuscripts delve deeper.

Jesus describes humanity as a three-fold temple: body, soul, and spirit.

“Your body is earth and shall return to earth. Your soul is the wind that rises and falls, but your spirit is my breath within you—indestructible, eternal.”

The task of life, he says, is to align these three.

The body must obey the soul.

The soul must obey the spirit.

The spirit must rest in the Father.

When this harmony is achieved, the human being becomes what he was created to be—an image of God walking upon the earth.

It’s breathtakingly direct.

Salvation here isn’t a legal pardon; it’s a restoration of wholeness.

Modern readers might call it holistic psychology or spiritual neuroscience—the process of rewiring the self toward light.

But 2,000 years ago, it was spoken as revelation.

The researcher realized these weren’t abstract metaphors; they were instructions—a guide for inner alchemy.

The risen Jesus was not simply blessing his followers; he was rebuilding them.

And maybe that’s the point.

Resurrection wasn’t an event to be remembered; it was a process to be repeated inside each of us.

What frightened the insтιтutional church most wasn’t that these ideas contradicted doctrine; it’s that they made doctrine irrelevant.

If every believer could enter communion through silence and awareness, who needed an intercessor? If the temple was within, who needed the cathedral?

This, more than any heresy, undermined ecclesiastical power.

A church built on hierarchy cannot survive a Christ who whispers, “You are the sanctuary.”

That’s why these writings were branded as mystical, oriental, or dangerous.

Yet centuries later, the very same ideas resurfaced in Christian mystics like Teresa of Avila and John of the Cross.

Their interior castles and dark nights of the soul echo what Ethiopia had preserved all along—the revolution of stillness.

It makes you wonder: maybe every spiritual awakening begins the same way—not with thunder from heaven but with one person closing their eyes and hearing the divine inside their own breath.

Among the researcher’s notes was a pᴀssage that struck him like lightning: “If your eyes were truly open, you would see angels walk beside you and demons whisper at your ear. Every thought builds a ladder upward to light or downward to darkness.”

This isn’t supersтιтion; it’s psychological truth written in spiritual language.

Every thought, every emotion constructs a pathway.

Attention is the currency of creation.

To dwell on bitterness is to descend; to meditate on love is to rise.

Modern neuroscience confirms this principle: each repeated thought strengthens a neural circuit.

The mind literally sculpts the brain.

The ancient text seems to describe the same thing—that salvation is a neurological as well as spiritual awakening.

The Ethiopian monks, without laboratories or scans, had already grasped what science is only now rediscovering: we become what we contemplate.

Perhaps that’s the real meaning of repentance—not guilt, but reorientation—turning the mind from shadow toward light.

The more the researcher studied these texts, the clearer it became.

Jesus was not founding a new religion; he was revealing a new consciousness.

He didn’t ask for monuments; he asked for metamorphosis.

He didn’t want worshippers repeating formulas; he wanted human beings awakening to divine awareness.

That message was revolutionary, and revolutions—even spiritual ones—are dangerous.

Empires thrive on obedience.

Inner freedom cannot be taxed, policed, or controlled.

No wonder the mountain monks were left alone and their scrolls forgotten by design.

Yet their very isolation became protection.

For 16 centuries, they copied these pages by hand, ink bleeding into goat skin parchment, whispering prayers over each word.

To them, these weren’t just stories; they were living seeds.

They believed one day those seeds would bloom again when the world was ready.

Maybe that time has come.

Because once again, faith is splitting in two—between those who guard tradition and those who seek transformation.

The Book of the Covenant closes with a promise that feels as modern as tomorrow: “In the last days, when my name is used for gain, when my words are sold as merchandise, my voice shall rise again from the places forgotten—from deserts, from prisons, from the hearts that still hope.”

It’s hard to read that and not think of the present.

In a world where faith can be monetized and morality politicized, the idea that truth might reappear through the humble feels both haunting and hopeful.

The researcher returned to Spain carrying only copies and notes, but he also carried something invisible—a conviction that the lost 40 days were never really lost.

They were buried, like a seed waiting for its season.

He would spend years trying to publish, debate, and defend what he’d found.

Many dismissed him; some called him deluded.

But he never forgot what the monk had told him under the Ethiopian stars: “Truth does not need to be believed to be true. It waits. And when the world grows dark enough, it shines.”

When the researcher finally returned home, he carried nothing but notebooks, pH๏τographs, and sleepless eyes.

Friends congratulated him on his adventure, but he knew this was not a story about archaeology; it was a story about omission—about how the greatest silence in Christian history was not an accident but a design.

Most believers imagine the Bible fell from heaven, complete and perfect.

But the truth is far more human.

For the first three centuries, Christianity was a patchwork of communities scattered across the empire, each with its own texts, gospels, letters, apocalypses, and visions.

There was no single canon, no fixed list of inspired books.

Only when Emperor Constantine made Christianity the religion of state did the process of selection begin.

Bishops gathered to decide what would be holy and what would be condemned.

They didn’t only ask what was true; they asked what was useful—for unity, for control.

Texts that emphasized personal revelation were discarded.

Texts that described Jesus as a mystical teacher rather than a kingly judge were labeled gnostic, and the documents that warned about church corruption were the first to disappear.

So when we open a Bible today, we’re not just reading ancient truth; we’re reading what survived a centuries-long editing war.

Ethiopia never joined that war.

Geography saved it.

Mountains became theology.

When Rome and Constantinople argued over dogma, Ethiopia quietly preserved every page it could find—including ones that spoke of a Jesus too radical for the councils to stomach.

Its Bible grew into the largest in Christianity—81 books, some found nowhere else on earth.

In those extra pages, the story of the 40 days survived like a heartbeat under centuries of dust.

When the researcher compared those texts with fragments from Syria and Egypt, the patterns matched.

The teachings of light, silence, and inner transformation weren’t Ethiopian inventions; they were echoes from the earliest Christian centuries—long before the empire’s theology hardened into law.

It’s almost poetic: the words that Europe tried to erase survived in Africa among the descendants of a queen who once sought Solomon’s wisdom.

Why would the Western church bury these writings? The answer is simple and uncomfortable: they made the church unnecessary.

In the Ethiopian manuscripts, Jesus declares that no priest stands between a soul and God.

He calls the human heart the only altar that cannot be defiled.

He warns that leaders will build palaces while the hungry die outside their gates.

If those lines had been canonized, the medieval church—with its wealth, crusades, and indulgences—would have been impossible.

So the message was quietly buried under layers of Latin and authority.

Yet even buried truth has a way of resurrecting.

Every reformer, every mystic, every whistleblower in Christian history has unknowingly repeated what Ethiopia never forgot.

One monk in Axum told the researcher, “Your theologians built empires; our Lord built servants.”

That line haunted him for years because it explained not only why these texts vanished but why they still disturb us today.

Western religion grew comfortable with distance—God in the sky, priest at the altar, believer on their knees.

The Ethiopian writings closed that distance entirely.

They place the divine not in the heavens but in the heartbeat.

They erase hierarchy and replace it with intimacy.

That intimacy is terrifying.

It means holiness isn’t measured by obedience but by awareness.

It means salvation isn’t received; it’s realized.

No wonder the church preferred silence.

It’s easier to manage followers than awakened souls.

Critics still argue these Ethiopian texts are medieval fabrications.

But linguistic studies tell another story.

The Ge’ez versions are translations of older originals, somewhat likely in Syriac or Coptic, dating as far back as the 4th century.

The theology within them is consistent with early Christian mysticism, not later invention.

So even if some pᴀssages were copied or expanded over time, their core ideas belong to a world before Rome’s editing scissors—a world where Christianity was not an insтιтution but an experience.

The researcher realized the question of authenticity almost didn’t matter because truth has a strange way of surviving outside of evidence.

After all, what is more dangerous to an empire?

A fake document or a true one it can’t control?

The Jesus who speaks in these texts is neither the distant monarch of medieval paintings nor the domesticated figure of modern sermons.

He is fierce, intimate, and free.

He doesn’t ask to be worshiped; he asks to be followed into transformation.

He doesn’t threaten hell; he invites awakening.

“Do not seek me in marble halls,” he says.

“Seek me in the widow who still believes, in the prisoner who forgives, in the child who sings in the ruins.”

For the researcher, these words felt like an earthquake—not because they contradicted the gospels, but because they completed them.

They turned resurrection from a miracle of the past into a mission for the present.

He began to see Christianity not as a religion of rules but as a rhythm of renewal—not as a system to belong to but as a consciousness to embody.

And maybe that’s why the text was hidden—not to be kept secret, but to be revealed when humanity was finally ready to understand it.

Years later, the researcher returned to Ethiopia.

The same monk still copied the same pages, still refusing to modernize or digitize.

When he asked why, an old monk smiled and said, “If we place these words on screens, they will vanish when the power goes out. But when we write them on skin, they breathe.”

That single sentence captured everything the West had forgotten.

Faith, like ink, only lives when pressed into flesh.

It must cost something to mean something.

When he left, the wind over the highlands sounded like a chant—ancient, slow, unstoppable.

It wasn’t a farewell; it was a reminder.

Some truths are too alive to die.

The night before leaving Ethiopia for the last time, the researcher couldn’t sleep.

He walked outside the monastery walls, barefoot on the cool dust, under a sky that seemed to hold every secret he had just uncovered.

In that silence, he heard a voice—not with his ears but with something deeper: “You have searched for what was forgotten. Now decide what you will do with what you have found.”

He didn’t move; he couldn’t.

The wind through the acacia trees felt alive, almost sentient.

And the words lingered: “Decide.”

Because discovering the truth is never the end of a journey; it is the beginning of responsibility.

Once you know that the Bible we read is not the full story—that councils, politics, and empires shaped what we call scripture—you can never unknow it.

But that doesn’t make the Bible false; it makes it human.

And in that humanity, perhaps lies its true divinity.

The Ethiopian texts do not cancel the Gospels; they complete them.

They remind us that faith was never meant to be static.

It’s not a museum of miracles; it’s a living conversation with the divine.

The monks of Debra Dammo never asked anyone to abandon their faith; they only asked that people see faith with open eyes—to realize that truth grows the way a seed grows—slowly, quietly, but irresistibly.

Maybe that’s why these writings survived in the mountains: because truth, like a seed, needs soil untouched by empire to take root.

Among the last pages of the Book of the Covenant lies a prophecy that feels like it was written for our century: “When my name is sold, when my face is repainted to flatter the powerful, when my words are rewritten to justify what I condemned, then my voice shall rise again from the forgotten places.”

At first, the researcher thought it was a metaphor.

But the more he looked at modern Christianity—the politics, the marketing, the division—the more he realized the prophecy is already happening.

The voice of renewal is not rising from palaces or pulpits but from prison cells, refugee camps, addiction clinics, and the quiet faith of the poor.

In the 21st century, Christianity’s fastest growth is in Africa—not in Europe’s cathedrals or America’s mega-churches but in villages that look a lot like Axum and Debra Dammo.

The fire has returned to the margins exactly as the Ethiopian text said it would.

Maybe what the Western church calls decline is not death; it’s pruning.

The branches that grew too heavy with pride are being cut so that the roots can breathe again.

In Western tradition, resurrection is a single miracle in the past.

But in these hidden writings, resurrection is a process—the awakening of divine life inside the human heart.

Jesus tells his disciples that every time they turn from fear to love, from silence to compᴀssion, they share in his resurrection.

It’s not about escaping death; it’s about transforming life.

That’s why he warns against building monuments.

“Do not seek me in temples of stone,” he says, “for I walk among the living.”

His resurrection, then, is not a doctrine to be debated; it’s a rhythm to be lived.

And if that’s true, then maybe the question isn’t whether the resurrection happened.

Maybe the real question is: has it happened in us?

Throughout history, when religion became empire, renewal always came from below—from saints, mystics, reformers, and the forgotten.

From Francis of ᴀssisi, who stripped naked in the town square to reject wealth, to Teresa of Kolkata, who found Christ in the dying, to millions of nameless believers who live the gospel quietly without applause.

That same pattern pulses through the Ethiopian prophecy: “When my followers no longer recognize my voice, I will speak again through those the world calls small.”

In that light, the researcher understood that the hidden Christ was never truly hidden; he was simply waiting for hearts humble enough to listen.

And maybe that’s the whole story.

The gospel doesn’t need to be rediscovered; it needs to be remembered.

The researcher visited one final time the elderly monk who had first translated the text for him.

The man’s beard was now white as snow, his hands trembling, but his eyes still burned with quiet certainty.

“Father,” the researcher asked, “after all these centuries, do you still believe these words will change the world?”

The monk smiled gently.

“The world does not change because of words,” he said.

“It changes because of hearts. But sometimes, words are the spark that remind hearts who they are.”

He closed the manuscript, kissed its cover, and whispered, “We have kept them safe for 1,600 years—not to keep them secret, but to keep them alive. The day will come when they must travel again. Maybe you are the one to carry them.”

As the plane lifted from Addis Ababa, the researcher looked down at the mountains glowing like altars under the sunrise.

He realized he hadn’t just studied history; he had entered it.

The silence of those monasteries was not emptiness; it was full—humming with truth too sacred for noise.

And maybe that’s what the story of the 40 lost days really means: that the greatest teachings of Jesus were never about creating followers, but about awakening co-creators.

He didn’t come to found a system but to ignite a consciousness.

The truth he taught was never meant to stay on parchment; it was meant to live, to move, to breathe.

“Truth cannot die,” the manuscript said.

“It is the seed and the sword—the seed that grows in silence, the sword that cuts through illusion.”

Every generation must decide what to do with it.

So now the question turns to us: what will we do with what we’ve found?

Will we cling to the safety of the story we’ve been told or dare to open the book that was never meant to stay closed?

Because maybe, just maybe, the lost 40 days were never lost at all.

They were waiting for hearts ready to listen.