The doctor said I’ll never be 100%,
my broken clavicle holding me back,
slowing me down–can’t raise
my arms, my hands, can’t lift
as much, but God,
I can still raise my hands to you
palms open, waiting
for you to take them, biceps
lifted clear of fallen sleeves,
fingers pointing at your glory.
I can still write my praises of you
eyes closed and fingers tapping
in time to your music, elbows
resting on the chair you gave me,
worship appearing on the screen.
I can still stamp my feet for you,
each beat a prayer entering the floor,
heels bouncing while your strength
helps me stand. I dance
my praise for your name.
I’m not 100%, I’m 150.
And if I have to hold the bone
to lift my arm, I will. If I
must sit to rest, I shall,
but I’ll always rise again to you.
As I was sitting at FnC the other night, reading email on my phone and editing some things on my blog, the music kicked up for worship and I didn’t feel like standing. I didn’t feel like pulling myself out of the funk I was in; I was tired and at the end of a very long day; I had received both good and bad news, and had some drama dumped on me; my heart wasn’t interested in worship.
But as I prayed and thought about it, I realized that it didn’t matter. Worship isn’t about me, it’s about praising my Lord. Like my tithe, God doesn’t need it. He doesn’t need my sacrifices, my money, or even my time. He is all-powerful, owns everything in the world, and holds my entire life and everything in it in His hands.
But because He saved me, and because He loves me, I owe Him my worship. I owe Him my time. Because in reality, it’s not my time, it’s His time.
God doesn’t really demand much of us. He asks a great deal in the Bible, and if I were to live a truly devout life, I would give far more to my Lord and Saviour than I currently do. But he isn’t demanding.
How niggardly to refuse to worship Him while my family sings songs in His praise. As Brian said, hallelujah.
“You will praise God.”