Low.

I am in a garden, 

I stand, underserving, broken even.

Rotten by greed, whithering hope.

I have questions burning my mind, 

Doubts and fears piercing my heart.

I stand in a garden, 

Pondering on my loweliness. 

In this garden, 

He stands.

Pierced hands, 

Wounded feet and side.

He stands.

Taller than me, 

Purely holy.

He has known grief and seperation, 

Violence and betrayal.

Still He stands, 

With love blazing in his eyes.

Love for whom? Based on what? I ask. 

He extends his hands, pierced as I said.

He gives me his name and clothes me in his robe.

When the fabric touches my shoulders 

And his skin mine, 

My heart rips in two. 

It spills out the wonder of this outrageous Grace and love, 

Pouring over me freely.

There is nothing I can do to pay Him back, 

To make myself worthy of this Mercy.

It makes my soul uncomfortable, I wrestle.

I want to deserve it.

Worse.

I need to deserve it.

To save my pride and my flesh.

He says I'll lose it if I try to pay it.

That a loan it is not, 

A prize it can't be.

It is a gift, given for free, 

That shall be received or lost.

So I give in, I bow down.

I earned it not, I deserve nothing.

Yet He gave it all, that I might know Him.