Symphony

I am Your instrument.

The touch of Your hand,

the breath You breathe into me,

these are Your Love language.

But lately I've been playing myself.

My hand, my breath, my composition.

My sorrow, my death, my destruction.

A screeching lie I cry out to You.

The tinder is running low.

The flames approach my branches alone.

My life begins to approach the bone.

I squirm and squeal and hide.

But You reveal what's inside.

You found me in the gallows of self-abuse

strangling on my poorly tied noose.

As You cut the rope, i fall to the ground.

Then You breathe Life into me, a shiftless mound.

And once again, we are making music.