I was a scoundrel till I met You, a truth that I often forget. Hands still

crimson from my secrets, the nights You have pardoned, laid to rest. Those

days of slumber, walking aimless like a shaking silhouette. I can recall

them back to memory but I would rather talk of grace instead. Lips of poison,

stained with bloodguilt, the secondhand of recompense. The times I left You

in the gutter, praying to affirm my righteousness. I gathered with the grand

assembly, blended in with crooked men. You saw my heart through walls of

striving, withholding the reward of Your suffering. Yet I dare pray to You.

Now I stumble through the pages where I ought to find life in place of grief.

I can hear the sorrow in Your stories to those demanding signs but not Your

peace. What a mockery of Your Kingdom, yet You offer to the thief. If You

restore the heavy laden, could You heal me of my hypocrisy?