I’m most amazed, O Lord, when your grace looks
like compassion. When you look me over, see what
I’ve been through, know how nearly out of life I
am, and you love me…like me…all the same.
Someone told me once that I would have to
be good, look good, live some perfect life
for you to take any notice of me at all. What a
tragedy of misinformation. What a waste of
time. And what an unthinkable affront to you.
To think I could clean myself up sufficiently
to merit your favor. That I could earn your
affection by rule-keeping and right-living. As if
you couldn’t—wouldn’t—see right through that
kind of religious charade. As if there would ever
be sufficient cleaning up to look good in your
sight. It was almost a perfect formula for not
needing you at all if I could heal myself, forgive myself, save
myself. But oh how you have shown me, Lord, oh
how clearly you have let me see that my best salvation efforts
are only a joke. So now I’m going to be as brave as I can be
and say, Here I am, Lord. Sinful through and
through. Filthy from many falling downs.
Wounded by many failures. Totally depending
on your amazing grace that looks like compassion.