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Description
Life is a contrast:
two congruous streams of comparison and compassion,
greed and grace,
fortune and failings,
the marriage of murmurs and mutters and meandering miscommunications.
We strive to make ourselves guilty over our grievances,
so our sense of judicial satisfaction
can satiate our inner sadist.
And instead of being satisfied, we hunger again.
The guilt appeals – through inclination or inquest
we invite more,
because what other choice do we have?

There’s you.

Grace and goodness, gathered into one great serving,
gotten for giving from the depths of the heart,
and whispered now when we’re weak and weary,
waiting for one who’ll softly tear us apart.
The satisfaction sought is not in the guilt,
Instead in the grace we thought was a lie.
Forgiving my failings, that grace freely given –
what glory is this that would knowingly die?
Why for my faults would you sacrifice one
whose self is itself the God we should serve,
and not leave the sinners, we wrong, wretched, broken,
to unbreak themselves or reap as they deserve?

Unmerciful mercy, make off with my misery;
mismanage my guilt until it’s all gone;
dispatch all my damage, despair and delusion;
destroy my depression and bring on the dawn.
What is the grace that gives without question,
culling the killer that comes from inside?
It’s almost like breathing a tangible bromance –
a romance from which we perpetually hide.
This hope, this passion, this longing for us –
this love with ferocity, with strength good and sure –
how are we worthy of a love so magnificent,
beneficent, sufficient, and totally pure?

Have my heart here, now, and forever keep it,
holding it heavy and light all the same.
Keep it inclined to encase in your glory,
gratefully giving you right to my blame.
How could I handle a guilt such as mine,
except by perceiving the painful as pleasure?
Take the torment then, and treat it as yours.
Take me and make me, this wretch, as your treasure.

Description
Life is a contrast:
two congruous streams of comparison and compassion,
greed and grace,
fortune and failings,
the marriage of murmurs and mutters and meandering miscommunications.
We strive to make ourselves guilty over our grievances,
so our sense of judicial satisfaction
can satiate our inner sadist.
And instead of being satisfied, we hunger again.
The guilt appeals – through inclination or inquest
we invite more,
because what other choice do we have?

There’s you.

Grace and goodness, gathered into one great serving,
gotten for giving from the depths of the heart,
and whispered now when we’re weak and weary,
waiting for one who’ll softly tear us apart.
The satisfaction sought is not in the guilt,
Instead in the grace we thought was a lie.
Forgiving my failings, that grace freely given –
what glory is this that would knowingly die?
Why for my faults would you sacrifice one
whose self is itself the God we should serve,
and not leave the sinners, we wrong, wretched, broken,
to unbreak themselves or reap as they deserve?

Unmerciful mercy, make off with my misery;
mismanage my guilt until it’s all gone;
dispatch all my damage, despair and delusion;
destroy my depression and bring on the dawn.
What is the grace that gives without question,
culling the killer that comes from inside?
It’s almost like breathing a tangible bromance –
a romance from which we perpetually hide.
This hope, this passion, this longing for us –
this love with ferocity, with strength good and sure –
how are we worthy of a love so magnificent,
beneficent, sufficient, and totally pure?

Have my heart here, now, and forever keep it,
holding it heavy and light all the same.
Keep it inclined to encase in your glory,
gratefully giving you right to my blame.
How could I handle a guilt such as mine,
except by perceiving the painful as pleasure?
Take the torment then, and treat it as yours.
Take me and make me, this wretch, as your treasure.