Cults

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In a black-hooded sweatshirt,
Plopped down on a vinyl couch,
I wonder where I'm headed,
Is time running out?

My past tries to catch up,
Straight out talk hurts,
Face myself, "I'm a cutter!"
As I grip a longsleeve shirt,

Time to show pain the door,
Memories cry for relief,
Guilt-binged years,
Abuse knows only grief,

Where is freedom's door?
My history springs tears in me,
No one can walk solo,
Who, alone, can part a raging sea?

Bring my scars to Jesus,
As I pull back my sleeves,
Anxiety shocks inside,
Cuts I can't avoid to see,

I feel ugly, I feel hate,
All the questions and stares,
Explain where my truth is,
Too huge for me to bear,

Jesus can you make my scars beautiful?
Only You can give meaning,
Bring healing to the hurting,
Can You reach out to me?

As people look at me strangely,
How is it possible to explain?
On my arms speak tragedy,
How to make beauty from pain?

I read there was a disciple,
His name, doubting Thomas,
Unless He saw the scars of Jesus,
He would not believe the promise,

Jesus extended His Scarred Hands,
For Thomas to probe wounds, open,
He placed his hands in His Hands and Side,
With tears, Thomas fell to knees, saying,
"My God and my King!"

For the scars on Jesus head, a crown of thorns,
For the scars on His Hands, nails hammered in,
For the scars on His Feet, nails hammered again,
For the scar in His Side, by a spear thrust through,
For the scars on His Back, whips that ripped His Skin,

Jesus is always there for you,
His Love He offers to you,
He can use your cuts and scars,
He can transform your broken heart too,

Lord, use my cuts and scars,
To show others the way,
That Your scars and wounds,
Be the healing of my cuts and scars, I pray.

Hold my scars in Your scarred Hands,
O Lord I pray in Your Mighty Name,
I believe your promise of healing,
Is mine, now and forever, in Jesus Name.

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