Dale Lloyd

Oh, the religion of my youth—
forever and ever demanding proof.
The ancient serpent’s whisper lives,
still speaking, smooth and sly:
“In the day that you do this,
you’ll earn your rightful place.
You can make yourself like God—
yes, even take His place.”

External conformity to law,
without the hint of grace.
Self-made coverings for my shame—
fig leaves stitched by my own hands.
My back was bent beneath the weight
of my imagined holiness.
My works—my works—my endless works,
the only thing I dared confess.

“I’ve done this. I’ve done that.
I’ll promise still to do much more.
After all, it’s up to me
by my works to open every door.”
Through scratching toil and stubborn will
I sought the right to stand—
to free myself from darkness
with my own outstretched hand.

That was the religion of my youth—
but I’m no longer young.
Today a very different song
is softly being sung:
“It’s finished. There is nothing
you can add, or prove, or do.
It’s not about what you have done—
but what’s been done for you.”

The ancient lie is overthrown;
at last I rest—for I am home.
My faith no longer points to works—
it tells a truer story.
And in the writing of His grace,
He—and He alone—
receives the glory.