Holy, holy, holy—echo on echo We are vessels, vessels, vessels— fractured, yet chosen, chosen, chosen. Gold coins ring in the offering bowl, medicine rests beside my prayer beads. I write my doubts in dust and ashes, drop them in the well—still believing. They said, Come as you are, so I carried in sleepless nights, trembling hands, and doubt that tastes like drowning. Yet You whisper: My grace is sufficient. In weakness— Your power becomes PERFECT. We are vessels, vessels, vessels— cracked clay lit from within. PERFECT. We are vessels, vessels, vessels— shattered shards still shining. Panic storms the temple courtyard, but I still show up: hands raised, mind racing, a prophet with a thorn. They want miracles wrapped in silk; mine come with jagged edges. Faith looks different at fourth watch when the voices won’t hush. Every scar, every thorn, each sleepless vigil— still You fill, still You fill these fractured vessels. PERFECT. We are vessels, vessels, vessels— cracked clay lit from within. PERFECT. We are vessels, vessels, vessels— broken pieces blazing bright. Not in spite of the cracks but because of them— the light pours through. Holy, holy, holy— even in the chaos, especially in the chaos— holy.
