(2 Corinthians 12:9)

The score of the day
strings me up like a deadman
A violin weeping
Each stroke is a dark sin
And I am confronted
once more with the truth that
I've secretly harboured
the thought “I'm not that bad”

Make my messes matter
Make this chaos count
The only hope I do have
is that in your hands
You turn dark to morning
yet another chance
to paint in big bold letters
across the pages of my life

There is rest for the wicked
There is rest for the wicked

The melody gapes
at my selfish behaviour
Told myself my ship
would safe in this harbour;
Sinking in deep waters
of my constant comparing;
The sum of my own faults
to the faults in others

Make my messes matter
Make this chaos count
The only hope I do have
is that in your hands
You turn dark to morning
yet another chance
to paint in big bold letters
across the pages of my life

There is rest for the wicked
There is rest for the wicked

The chasms they stand
like an army to wrestle
me out of the chance
that I might call your Name
The distance is screaming;
a desert, a tally
between who I am
and who I want to be

When I don't know who I am
but I know who I'm not
I feel less like a work of progress
than a stagnant cause
Just as I turn to those empty,
well-acquainted solutions
of earning my way back to you
I hear you...

I hear your voice, your whisper
above the chants of shame
The voice does not excuse me
but rather offers to forgive
For when we realise we
cannot save ourselves
that's when the door is opened
and lets our Hero in

He make your messes matter
makes your chaos count
the only we hope we do have
is that in his hand
He turns dark to morning
just another chance
to paint in big bold letters
across the pages of our lives