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I am a fool, Lord, and I am a sinner, so it is right for me to sing Your praises. Only a sinner can praise You on earth. Only a saint can praise You in heaven. One has to be a saint to enter heaven. But a sinner can be a saint if he asks for help. Some sinners do and some don’t.
I give You thanks especially because I was, and am, so dastardly. Were I not, Your almighty strength might never have come to me. Your mercy might never have visited me.
I was like one of Your lost sheep. Nay, I was not lost nor strayed. I was a rebel and I fled Your flock in furious anger, and in a most unholy hatred, and in the firm resolve that never, never, never, would I return to You—never, never, would I bow my head at the mention of Your Name.
Had I not been a wicked lamb, Your Son, My Lord, My Shepherd, would not have hunted for me. I would never have known the joy of being carried in His arms the long, long way back home.
I would not have held my foolish head against His breast. I would not have heard the heartbeat of His infinite compassion.
Nor would I have heard the melody sung Him by all Your galaxies of worlds and constellations—Your choirs of millions of billions of stars—Your marching bands of planets, each faithful to the intricate orbit You made for it, all praising You in eternal perfect harmony and order.
Had I not been a sinner, Lord, Your Son would never have written before me on the sands. He stooped and wrote with His finger. No man knows what He wrote; no man, but me. He wrote down all my sins and He bent over so that I might not see myself as He saw me.
I did not look up, but I saw His breath blowing the sands away, even as He wrote. And I knew that I had been forgiven and would no longer feel the heaviness of guilt.
My sins were blown away! They have been blown away again and again, always by the compassion of Your Son’s sweet-smelling breath.
But sometimes, Lord, some small grains of sand sting and wet my eyes; and it is then, only then, I think, that I realize I love You.
And I know I must cling to You or go blind. Had I not been so wretched and ragged a sinner, I might never have known the tenderness and the love and the thoughtfulness and the care and the holiness of My Father.
I did not rise from the pigsty of my life and go to seek You, Lord; You came all the way to my filthy place. You washed me clean. You placed fine robes upon my nakedness. You put a ring upon my finger. You killed the fatted calf for me and, lo, I have been feasting at Your table all these many years!
You made a great room for me in Your heart, and a little niche (for Yourself) in my heart. You put Your own furniture in that niche, and You sit there constantly playing hymns to me on Your golden harp.
Lord, sometimes I ignore You. Sometimes I do not hear the music Your divine fingers make as they pluck the strings of Your harp. Sometimes I am deaf even to Your singing voice.
But You do not forget me ever—even for a moment. I am a sinner and You sing me psalms! Why should I not sing my psalms to You?
Excerpted from Psalms of a Sinner, (2011), MH Publications, Psalm 1, out of print
