Dear Heavenly Father,
This is how my sickness makes me feel:
Useless, spent, painful rusty, tired piece of nothing, empty, trash.
This is how Your Son makes me feel:
Backhoeing-fit to bury despair, full throttle, bulldozing praise to You
A-okay, can-do hope
Headed for New Jerusalem on a full-tank of Your Spirit
Re-fueled at the Cross
Road out of Egypt
Through this desert wilderness
Prayer-driven, Red Sea-partin’ song-singing,
Following the signs in Your Word
Telling me Your steadfast love will never fail
‘Cause look at me!
I’m not a piece of junk:
Not when I’m on the road