long ago, my ancestors decided to trust themselves more than the One who gave them life.
pride turned to hurt, it turned to lust, it turned to shame, and it led to death.
less long ago, the Son of their Creator stole that pride and died with it, because he would rather be tortured and killed than see me live apart from His Father,
and he still bears the scars to prove it.
there’s still a pain that i feel when all of the shit that i hold on to is ripped from my hands and is used to nail my Savior to the cross
but the healing always comes soon enough
for my God comes and meets me, like how He meant it to be.
and i turn my empty hands up, my soul singing
thank you, thank you, thank you.
