Chris Shalom - Dry Bones are Rising Lyrics

Video

DRY BONES ARE RISING-CHRIS SHALOM (VIDEO)

Meaning & Inspiration

I still have dirt under my fingernails from where I was clawing at the ground, trying to find something—anything—that didn't leave me hollow. You spend enough time in the far country, feeding on whatever scraps the pigs leave behind, and you stop expecting anything to change. You just assume you’re dead. You assume the rot has settled into the marrow and that's that.

Then Chris Shalom starts singing about a sound, a shaking, and suddenly the air feels heavy.

"Every dry bone is rising up again."

He keeps repeating it like a hammer on a nail. Honestly? The first time I heard it, I wanted to turn it off. It felt too loud for where I was. I’d spent so many years convinced that my life was a graveyard of bad decisions and burnt bridges. If you’re like me, you don’t trust "abundance." You trust the drought because the drought is predictable. You know exactly how it feels to have nothing. But this song isn't asking for my permission to bring life back to the graveyard. It’s just stating a fact. It’s the sound of Ezekiel standing in that valley, looking at things that shouldn't have breath anymore, and watching them refuse to stay dead.

It reminds me of the moment I realized the Father hadn't moved. I was the one who walked away, the one who turned my life into a collection of skeletons, but He was still there, waiting for the wind to blow.

There's this raw, jarring thing about "the rain of abundance" hitting a place that’s been dusty for years. It’s not comfortable. It’s messy. It’s the sound of hinges rusting off because they’ve been shut for too long. When I hear him sing about the "shift in the atmosphere," I’m not thinking about some sanitized, perfect church service. I’m thinking about the moment you realize you aren't stuck in your own wreckage anymore. The scandal of it is that I don't deserve for the bones to knit back together. I left. I walked out. I should be dust. But the grace doesn't ask if I cleaned myself up first. It just blows in and forces the life into the lungs.

I’m still shaking the soot off my coat. I’m still learning how to walk with legs that were dead a minute ago. Sometimes, I hear the music and I wait for the other shoe to drop, for the "abundance" to stop and the reality of my history to catch up. But the song keeps pushing. It doesn't apologize for being alive. It doesn't apologize for the noise.

It just keeps saying it—rising up again.

I don’t know if I’m fully standing yet. I’m still a bit unsteady, still picking the mud off my boots. But for the first time in a long time, the silence isn't the loudest thing in the room. There’s a different sound now. And maybe, just maybe, I’m allowed to listen to it.