The Prophet

This fierce force found in me:
Biting, burning, bashing, turning
All I am to a foul degree

The world has fallen since its birth.
These things I cannot help but see:
A ruptured heart, a broken earth,
And a sick, strange enemy living in me.

And as I look upon the rest of men,
Their broken vessels, their scattered hearts,
I cannot help but think again:
We’re cracked, we’re broken, we’ve fallen apart.

But then I survey a dying Man,
His broken body, His ruptured heart.
To mend the broken was His plan,
To make me new, to begin to start.

He took on flesh to take my sin,
-This was my guilt, this was my blame-
Away from me and on to Him.
So free I stand, I bear no shame.

So bring back that Prophet of the Golden Mirth,
For in my heart, His banner He flew.
And all of my ravings for the second birth,
Were quelled in Him, who makes all things new.

This fiercer Force now in me:
Making, breaking, healing, taking,
All I am, to be all for Thee.