Another Saturday evening blessing, courtesy of my ever-prayerful friend, Ray Hardin:

Looks Like Compassion

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.