Where are the words,
As I'm picking up swords,
Fighting a battle, that's already been won?
I work and I try,
Striving to more than "get by",
Thinking it's what I do, instead of what He's done.
I'm so sick inside,
Of this wretched pride.
It hurts to think He could love me like this.
To stand and be used,
When I should be abused,
Is something that seems quite amiss.
I'm scared and I'm tired.
I'm no one. I'm mired.
But who I am is really irrelevant.
You are love, you are good.
You are worthy, I misunderstood.
I do nothing without your intent.
Break my pride, help me see;
You, alone, carry me.
You are my everything.
All I have is yours to give,
Give me strength to look and live,
And know it's nothing I'm doing.
Lord, do your work, I'm here for just for you.
There's nothing good in me, so make it only of you.
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