What do You see in me, Lord, that I don't?
That You should pick my life up from the dumps, shake off its dust and place it against Your own heart?
What do You see in me, Lord, that I don't?
That You should come to my side, bear the stench of my sins and still, look lovingly into my eyes?
What do You see in me, Lord, that I don't?
That You should open Yourself and walk me into Your very life, and there, give me Home?
What do You see in me, Lord?
That Your eyes should rest upon the plain and ordinary me, that You place onto my shivering palm the key to the interior world - Your world of magnificent intricacies?
What do You see in me, Lord?
That You should even entrust to me Your own flock, give me the most undeserved privilege of labouring alongside You - YOU, GOD - to lead them home to You?
What do You see in me, Lord, that I don't see?
That You should allow Your people to hear me and rise up into the realms of Your divinity, there, to touch You?
The truth, Lord, is that I don't see what You see. And I might never.
Help me to trust You, even when I cannot see as You see.
Help me to allow You, even when I cannot understand your choice.
Help me - in my helpless wonderments, my loss of words, as I reach the limit of my human intellect that cannot transcend into the infinity of Your power and wisdom - to be still.
To simply be still.
To be.
To surrender.
