The Author

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?

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, 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've played God
I live in a moment You already wrote
And it proves that I'm someone, yeah, someone You love

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 pen 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
And I've seen ashes turn 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?
Called 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?
A troubled child, still running wild
Chasing the glory instead of the One
Who says that I, even I
Have something still left to offer?
Well, wo 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
I'm ink in the pen in the hands of The Author
I'm ink in the pen in the hands of The Author