The Author

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Picked up the book for the first time in ages.

Still washed me clean with the dust on the pages.

My life is a story I struggle to write.

But is it one worth telling? Is it one You like?

Mm.

So who am I?

Who am I?

Am I just a poor preacher's prodigal son?

Troubled child, running wild. Chasing the glory instead of the One.

Who says that I, even I, have something still left to offer.

So who am I?

Who am I to question the pen in the hands of the Author?

Like every good story, You learn from the loss.

And I lost the plot every time I played God.

I live in a moment You already wrote.

There's proof that I'm someone, yeah, someone You love.

Oh.

So who am I?

Who am I?

Am I just a poor preacher's prodigal son?

A troubled child, running wild.

Chasing the glory instead of the One.

Who says that I, oh, even I, have something still left to offer.

So who am I?

Who am I to question the plan in the hands of the Author?

I see trauma. I see worthless. You see something

You can work with. I see weakness. I see failure.

You see something good on paper.

Yeah, I've seen ashes turned to beauty. I've felt heaven working through me.

I've seen panic turn to power.

Felt Your peace in my darkest hour.

What grace is this?

You call me by name again and again and again and again. What grace is this?

Crossed out my shame.

Forgives me again and again and again and again and again.

So who am I? God, who am I?

Am I just a poor preacher's prodigal son?

Troubled child, still running wild.

Chasing the glory instead of the One.

Who says that I, even I, have something still left to offer.

Who am I?

Who am I to question the pen in the hands of the Author?

I'm ink in the pen in the hands of the Author.

Mm.

I'm ink in the pen in the hands of the Author.

I'm ink in the pen in the hands of the

Author.