Original subtitles

They told me God avoids places like this, that holiness won't over -over

birds. But I dared him anyway.

I laid down in flames and asked, Are you here?

This is Birds in Hell, spoken word for the soul.

Let's begin.

Are you here?

That question slipped through my teeth.

whispered under the weight of my own breath, a breath held

hostage by shame, regret, and wreckage.

I made my bed in hell, not a metaphor, not a meat. No,

I made it stone by stone, needle by needle, knife by godless knife.

sheets wrinkled with regret, pillows soaked with silent screams, and behold,

he was there, not with a whip or a finger to shave, but with

outstretched hands, hands that looked like mercy.

I didn't fall into sin, I dug into it, shovel in hand, digging graves with my

decisions. I dug my feet with light, with love soaked in liquor, with pride

marked as freedom, with rebellion that looked like independence.

I thought I was crafting liberation, but I was caught in a thump.

And I made my peace with pain, because pain was predictable.

I kissed the bottle and called it God.

I slept with shadows and named them comforts.

I called out heaven and dead lightning to answer.

I lit every bridge God tried to cross to get to me.

And still, on days when living became too hard, I asked, Are you

here?

The haters told me he won't come here.

But he did.

He stepped through fire and shame, through every lie I made my truth,

every bottle I called my blanket, through every night I said, leave me be,

and still he came.

I ran to the outermost parts of the sea, chasing escape like a religion, not

to swim but to sink, not to float but to forget.

The tide became my keeper. The waves wrote my name in sorrow.

But even there, he found me.

His eyes didn't scan for things.

They searched the waterlogged wreckage, looking for one gasping soul too tired

to fight, too numb to scream, too lost to believe.

The darkness wasn't passive.

It was fiercely cruel.

Wrapped around me like chains.

Called me names I answered to.

Failure. Fake.

Filled.

Forsaken. And I wore them like they fit.

But still.

He stayed.

Not spacing heaven's floor. Not wringing divine hands in dismay.

He stayed right at the edge of my whisper, ready to scoop me up at my

word.

I signed my name on contracts I never read, traded my words for moments

that never lasted.

I was shamed like skin, baited in guilt until I forgot my God -given name.

I swam in depths where even memory forgot me. Yes,

his eyes were still fixed, like he marked me in my mother's womb,

like he tattooed grace on my back when I wasn't looking, like he never looked

away, not even for a second.

But still, get this, darkness isn't just the absence of light.

It's a presence, a weight.

It's a voice that mocks you.

You think God would come for you?

And I believed it.

I preached sermons to myself about why I wasn't water -rescuing.

I held all the calls in my mind, yet I never answered. But still, he stayed,

unshaken. unchanged by the smell of smoke on me, unbothered by the stains of

secrets I wore.

He didn't flinch at my filth, didn't scold my shadows, didn't shame my scars.

stayed.

Like the prodigal father scanning the road, like the shepherd living 99, like

Jesus dying on the cross.

Then came a word.

Not thunder.

Not trumpet.

Not angel choir.

Just a whisper in the muck. Call me.

And oh boy, I did.

Not with eloquence. Not with faith.

Not with clean hands. I just cooked a tired, trembling help.

And I ran.

Not walked.

Not strolled casually like some deity detached.

He ran like love that knew the way home.

He ran through my hell, through my doubt, through every shame.

Through the echo of every ill -begotten name I called myself.

Through every bad decision I ever identified with.

He scooped me.

Yes, me.

Not the cleaned -up fashion. Not the Sunday -best impersonator.

Not the memory of who I used to be. It scooped up the real me.

The one that smelled like sin, looked like guilt, spoke like doubt.

The liar. The addict.

The doubter. The cynic. The cold.

The one who memorized pain and called it purpose.

It scooped me like I was treasure.

Like I was lost gold in a dirty field.

Like the very cross he hung on was etched with my name.

No judgments.

No lecture.

Just a rope, a ring, a fist, and a father who said, you were

dead, but now you live.

And it dressed me in grace.

Not just a little grace, but the kind that drips off your bones, soothes

your soul, makes people stare and say, wait, you?

It came for you?

Yes, it did.

And suddenly, the heaven I thought had never reached tore itself open.

And a love I thought I'd killed rushed like floodwaters through my soul.

Now, I breathe in mercy like it's oxygen.

Walk roads lit by grace instead of guilt.

Still scarred but no longer shackled.

Because when I asked, are you here?

I didn't ask as a poetic line or as a spiritual concept.

I meant it like a scream in the night.

I meant it like a heartbeat in cardiac arrest.

And again he answered, not with thunder, not with a sermon, not

with lightning, but with presence.

He answered with presence.

You can't argue with presence. You can't ignore it when you feel him.

But still I ran.

He stayed.

I hid his thoughts.

I cursed, he bled.

I bled, he healed.

He is the God of second chances.

God fought 50th.

He doesn't count like we do.

He doesn't remember like we do. He doesn't hold receipts.

He holds wounds and heals them.

So if you are out there asking what I asked, are you here?

Let me be your echo. Let me testify.

Let me breathe this truth into your broken space.

Yes, even now, especially now.

He is.

He was.

He will be.

Ever. Yeah.

So this is for the ones in hell made beds.

The drifters at sea. The ones who think darkness disqualifies them from

divinity.

He is not repelled by your rules. He is strong to it.

He is the God who sits in your ashes.

Savior who walks through your stone.

The friend who won't stop knocking until the door falls open.

His grace is boundless.

Are you here?

That question slipped through clenched teeth, whispered under

the weight of my own breath.

A breath held hostage by shame.