“For you did not receive a spirit of slavery, to fall back into fear. But you received a spirit of adoption, through which we cry, ‘Abba, Father!’” –Rm 8:15
Who am I, Lord, to hold onto the past,
And taunt myself o’er failures you forgave?
Why should I, with my eye on mirror cast,
See not a child of God, but sin’s lost slave?
Your arms about me tenderly You weave.
Each day Your love You whisper in my ear.
What right have I to worthlessness to cleave?
You proved what I am worth with nails and spear.
Falls can’t define me when my soul You lift;
Nor weakness, when Your strength slew Death for me.
Of Your true vision make me now a gift,
That through Your eyes my value I might see.
You hold me precious. Precious, then, am I.
With dignity I’ll act, in hope raised high.