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I’m most amazed, O Lord, when your grace looks
like compassion.  When you look me over, see what
I’ve been through, know how nearly out of life I
am, and you love me…like me…all the same.

Someone told me once that I would have to
be  good, look good, live some perfect life
for you to take any notice of me at all.  What a
tragedy of misinformation.  What a waste of

time.  And what an unthinkable affront to you.
To think I could clean myself up sufficiently
to merit your favor.  That I could earn your
affection by rule-keeping and right-living.  As if
you couldn’t—wouldn’t—see right through that
kind of religious charade.  As if there would ever
be sufficient cleaning up to look good in your
sight.  It was almost a perfect formula for not

needing you at all if I could heal myself, forgive myself, save
myself.  But oh how you have shown me, Lord, oh
how clearly you have let me see that my best salvation efforts
are only a joke.  So now I’m going to be as brave as I can be
and say, Here I am, Lord.  Sinful through and
through.  Filthy from many falling downs.
Wounded by many failures.  Totally depending
on your amazing grace that looks like compassion.