O, how could You love us?
We who value our lives, yet deprive ourselves of life,
For the disgusting and pathetically selfish direction of vanity.
We who forsake love, yet desire to thrive,
Cherishing all we hold dear, while casting aside what could be.
We are nothing more than darkness contained in vessels of flesh and bone,
Even our blood runs as ink.
And as we wound ourselves, we paint in blood a horrifying picture
Of a grim horizon without a Son.
We cast aside faith in favor of being adamant in our ideals,
We observe this world and think ourselves wise, yet can't even think.
In pride, irony paves the path to our fall from which we cannot run.
O, how do You love us?
We, who hate even when we love, pitifully clawing our way out of the abyss,
Only to see our lack of progress, leading to discouragement.
How have You this patience? Haven't You had enough of this?
Enough of us?
What we deserve is beyond all mercy,
Yet, painted on a wooden canvas in the midst of an arid afternoon,
You broke our cyclical curse and stood in the void,
Cleansing the void inside the humble heart and rebuilding the ruins.
Your compassion was manifest, all while we toyed
With the very foundations of creation,
Yet You love us still.
Such simple, beautiful truth, yet so difficult to grasp in the wake of our evil will.
We walk in the vale of the shadow of death,
That shadow cast by the beast raging inside us.
Yet, in the decay of death, we feel Your breath;
We long for someone in which to put our trust.
We, who are dead but may still again breathe;
We, the prodigal children, those who once opposed You.
O, how You love us!
We, who have been shown mercy, sing out with all creation:
"Your compassions are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness!"
We who value our lives, yet deprive ourselves of life,
For the disgusting and pathetically selfish direction of vanity.
We who forsake love, yet desire to thrive,
Cherishing all we hold dear, while casting aside what could be.
We are nothing more than darkness contained in vessels of flesh and bone,
Even our blood runs as ink.
And as we wound ourselves, we paint in blood a horrifying picture
Of a grim horizon without a Son.
We cast aside faith in favor of being adamant in our ideals,
We observe this world and think ourselves wise, yet can't even think.
In pride, irony paves the path to our fall from which we cannot run.
O, how do You love us?
We, who hate even when we love, pitifully clawing our way out of the abyss,
Only to see our lack of progress, leading to discouragement.
How have You this patience? Haven't You had enough of this?
Enough of us?
What we deserve is beyond all mercy,
Yet, painted on a wooden canvas in the midst of an arid afternoon,
You broke our cyclical curse and stood in the void,
Cleansing the void inside the humble heart and rebuilding the ruins.
Your compassion was manifest, all while we toyed
With the very foundations of creation,
Yet You love us still.
Such simple, beautiful truth, yet so difficult to grasp in the wake of our evil will.
We walk in the vale of the shadow of death,
That shadow cast by the beast raging inside us.
Yet, in the decay of death, we feel Your breath;
We long for someone in which to put our trust.
We, who are dead but may still again breathe;
We, the prodigal children, those who once opposed You.
O, how You love us!
We, who have been shown mercy, sing out with all creation:
"Your compassions are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness!"
Note from the author:
I wrote this to be a catharsis after feeling really burdened, frustrated, angry, sad, and every other emotion in the book due to a historical week filled with death, destruction, and grand displays of human depravity. I just begun thinking, "God, how do You love us when we are so evil?" This was my lamentation for mankind, a reflection on the wonder of God's love and patience. We are so pathetically evil and depraved yet He loves us unshakeably and eternally. It is a genuine mystery to me still, but it's a mystery that only serves to further my awe of who He is.
