Man of sorrows, carry mine,
Make of me a house divine
Where sandaled feet and robe of white
Can bind my wounded heart tonight.
All this work seeking specks on snow is chicken scratch,
for here I am,
grasping for crumbs under the table,
coveting the hem of Your garment
when I am an invited guest at Your banquet table.
I’m sewing a new patch on an old wine-skin;
rather than the patch,
I will put on my new robe,
garment of praise
more fitting for a Daughter of the King.
So dressed, I will rise up,
approach Your throne room with confidence,
and claim my prize –
of You –
glory following glory.
This seeking specks