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Sin is my dead heart,
And the blood it pushes and pulls.
And it is the dirt that won't produce,
And flesh rotting off of bone,
Becoming dirt that won't produce.
And it is the foul taste in my mouth,
Which I love.
It is that I would take a sign,
And make it a Signified.

Grace is a fatal blow,
And a defibrillative infusion of death into death,
And of bleeding valves onto softening stones.
Grace is the gravel path become fertile ground,
And it is the seeds that fall on the fertile ground,
And on the gravel path.
And it is the Lion with a sword,
And the Lamb who took the sword,
As it swung swiftly toward my betraying neck,
And landed fully on His.
And it is the sweet taste in my mouth,
Which I love.
It is that You would when I would not,
And it is that now, I would.