I say I believe, but what does that mean,
If to be His vessel fully isn’t my dream.
If my path hugs comfort, not Calvary’s hill,
Have I bowed my heart, or bent my will
Christ didn’t die for a nod and a phrase,
Or to sit on a shelf for ceremonial days.
He came to collide with the core of my being
To resurrect bones, giving blind eyes seeing.
Transformation is never mild or small.
It wrecks me, refines me, my knees to fall.
Then lifts me again with scarred, holy hands,
And calls me to follow, not merely to stand.
This faith isn’t stitched in Sunday routine,
In manicuring my life to appearance so clean.
It’s war in the dark where no one applauds,
It’s fire that consumes all masks and facades.
It’s drawing the lines that cost me the crowd,
It’s forgiving the one who won’t say it out loud.
It’s prayer in the quiet, when silence is loud,
It’s truth over trend, and faith that’s unbowed.
The call of gospel, tore the veil between,
It’s rushing like thunder beneath the unseen.
I can’t serve the King who hung and bled,
While feasting at tables where comfort is fed.
This gospel costs, it demands my all,
To rise when I’m weary, with grit and gaul
And I ask my soul what words can’t mask
Am I claiming Christ, or living the task
Do I wear His name while walking away,
Or bear His weight every step of the way
I can wear the cross, but must know this truth
It’s not in the symbol, it’s shown in the proof.
I don’t need to answer, not with my breath.
My life is the sermon and my walk is the test.