The Death of Me

Lord, I'm not the man You've made me to become,
but I trust Your hands in molding me:
You shatter me as I fall on You
and leave behind deceptions in heart,
for You craft brokenness into perfection;
not one tear falls to the ground
without You catching and using it for good ––
my heart finds comfort and serenity in sorrow,
with the awe of intangible beauty,
and my mourning begets mourning
as You rain righteous love upon a wretch ––
a wretch whom You've called perfect in Your eyes
by grace too wonderful to understand,
by mercy too magnificent to withstand -––
may You ever increase my dwindling faith
and hold me in Your loving arms;
may my soul sing with all creation
and my heart die within my chest,
that You resurrect the death of me.