He picks up my sword
Once I have fallen.
The world will push me down,
And I will feel scared, unworthy,
Not in the ability to be seen again.
Then,
He will pick up my sword from out of my fingers,
And the weighted chains off my shoulders.
He will wear it all
As He fights my battle.
In one slash of this sword, He defeats all.
My pain once too heavy,
Now as light as a feather laid on His altar.
My sins forgiven,
Because he has picked up this sword off
My ****** hands,
Pried from my finger,
Once too shamed to bear such a love as this.
Now, I lay on this battlefield,
Seeing how
Greatly I have given up,
And how far I’ve run from Him.
Back again, into my war.
He picks up this sword,
And this time I let him,
Not fighting with the pain of my hands
Drenched in blood
Not others but my own.
He holds this sword, my chains on His back,
He reaches out for my hand,
And takes it in His.
He holds my ****** hands,
Drenched with sins,
As he walks me back into my war,
I look down,
And my hands are clean,
Once red now white.
And I watch as we
Win my fight.