Written Prayers I — “You and Yours” [Intro — whispered, almost no music] God... They told me You were stripping me down. I don't know. Maybe You were. Maybe I was just finally putting down what I couldn't carry anymore. [pause] I'm still angry. I'm still grieving. And I'm still here. [Verse 1 — sparse, fractured conscious rap] I spent years calling responsibility love. Years confusing being needed with being worthy. I thought if I stayed long enough, explained enough, forgave enough— You would change them. Or You would change me. Or somehow You'd change the ending. But You didn't. And I don't know what to do with a prayer that doesn't get answered the way I asked it. I stood at the door until my hands hurt. I bled against the frame and called it faith. So tell me— when does perseverance become permission for somebody else to keep destroying you? When does forgiveness stop meaning “come back”? When does love finally learn how to say: No more. [Beat begins — low 808, heartbeat kick] [Pre-Chorus — rising] If I'm wrong, correct me. If I'm afraid, steady me. If I'm running from love, bring me back. But if I'm running from destruction— don't make me feel guilty for running. [Chorus — melodic, haunting] Teach me the difference between surrender and defeat. Teach me how to let go without believing I'm weak. If I can't save them, let me stop pretending I can. If I have to walk away, then walk with me when I stand. Give me enough mercy to leave the door behind. And enough courage not to turn around every time I cry. You and yours... I thought that meant everybody else. Maybe sometimes, God, it means you and yours— and me too. [Verse 2 — darker, more rhythmic] I have called guilt a conscience. Called fear a warning. Called exhaustion love. Called staying faithfulness. Maybe I built a theology out of survival. Maybe I learned to apologize before anybody even accused me. Maybe I thought being good meant being available to everybody's pain. So here I am— trying to believe that boundaries aren't walls. That walking away isn't abandonment. That protecting what is still alive isn't selfish. You know what scares me? If I stop rescuing everyone, who am I? [pause] Maybe that's the point. Maybe You aren't taking me apart. Maybe You're showing me what was never me in the first place. [Beat cuts] [Bridge — spoken prayer] God... I don't want to become hard. I don't want my boundaries to become bitterness. I don't want my survival to become another weapon. Keep my heart soft. Keep my eyes open. Let me grieve without going back. Let me forgive without reopening the wound. Let me love people without abandoning myself. [Silence] And if I have to choose— teach me to choose life without hating the people I left behind. [Beat returns — warmer] [Verse 3 — release begins] I don't need You to make the past disappear. I need You to stop making me afraid of the future. I don't need every door reopened. I need to know which doors were never mine to keep open. I don't need an explanation for every scar. I need somewhere to put the weight. So take it. Not because I understand. Not because I'm finished grieving. But because I've carried it long enough. [Final Chorus — expansive, layered vocals] Teach me the difference between surrender and defeat. Teach me how to let go without believing I'm weak. If I can't save them, let me stop pretending I can. If I have to walk away, then walk with me when I stand. Give me enough mercy to leave the door behind. And enough courage not to turn around every time I cry. You and yours... I thought that meant everybody else. Maybe sometimes, God, it means you and yours— and me too. [Outro — piano, distant vocal] I tried my hardest. You know that. I don't need to prove it anymore. I forgive what I can. I grieve what I can't. And what I cannot carry— I give back. [pause] You and yours. And me. Amen.
