These words are my offerings burnt
singed in fires of pain and hurt
written as gouts of bright blood spurt
from my contrite soul.
I take treasure from my heart
pleasures, pains, my every dart
burn them for a brand new start
the incense of my spirit.
I will rise, all clothed in red
from my tear-stained sodden bed
walk into dark woods instead
and scatter these lost dreams
to leave a path of grace behind
and light remaining there to find
a way thru hurt to Your Home kind
I sing a new song now.
Gives me hope.
You do not delight in sacrifice, or I would bring it;
you do not take pleasure in burnt offerings.
The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit;
a broken and contrite heart,
O God, you will not despise.
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