Bankrupt

I bear a soul of borrowed piety,

my own raiment torn and stain,

just filthy rags before God’s throne,

a debtor of sin who can’t begin to cover the price.

 

Though I weep and pray to prove my zeal,

speak a thousand psalms of praiseful sounds

it still can’t pardon the wages of my wayward ways,

for all I can offer is counterfeit righteousness.

 

Before that altar of sacrifice unto the Lord,

there is nothing I can bring,

which is able to settle the bill

created by my hands when pilfering

from the tills of pontificated

and sanctimonious sacraments

or the hastily minted coinage of asceticism.

 

But the heart’s inner witness

knows the hollowness of that currency,

and from Heaven’s bank

there is only one denomination,

which can ever be cashed.

 

It is printed in the blood of Christ,

something we only acquire by faith,

yet a gift by grace that is never earned,

in the end when we hold that incredible receipt,

how completely it heals our eternally bankrupt condition,

though often hard to stop hearing the mind’s creditor

ever whispering we still owe.

 

Day by day we have to revisit

where the eternal court dwells for our spirit,

some come to explain new charges incurred

while the rest of us just say thank you

because we accept how they were already paid.