I thought that I was writing songs, Giving my memory a voice, Gathering the scattered pieces, Learning to once again rejoice. I wrote the things I couldn't carry, The questions I could hardly say— I didn't know I was writing psalms. I only knew I had to pray. Some began with broken places, Some with tears I couldn't hide. Some remembered tender mercies, Ways I knew You'd stayed beside. Some were questions without answers, Some were gratitude and praise— I didn't know I was writing psalms. I was simply singing faith. I didn't know I was writing psalms, I was only singing what was true— The sorrow and the celebration, Every road that led to You. The questions and the hallelujahs, The nights of Why?, the days of Yes! I didn't know I was writing psalms— I was giving You my heart, I guess. Then I opened ancient pages Filled with songs from long ago— David crying from the darkness, David singing what he knows. Joy and anguish side by side there, Fear and faith within one song— And suddenly I recognized it: This is where my heart belongs. For a psalm can hold the heartache And still testify of grace. It can ask where God is hiding, Then turn around and seek His face. It can mourn what has been taken, It can praise what still remains. It can carry both the weeping And the worship in one refrain. I didn't know I was writing psalms, I was only singing what was true— The sorrow and the celebration, Every road that led to You. The questions and the hallelujahs, The nights of Why?, the days of Yes! I didn't know I was writing psalms— I was giving You my heart, I guess. Maybe prayer is sometimes spoken. Maybe sometimes prayer s are sung. Maybe testimony rises When ordinary words won't come. Maybe music holds the pieces That the heart can't quite explain— And turns a lifetime into worship, Turns remembrance into praise. So I'll keep writing down the mercies. I'll keep singing what I know. I'll sing the valleys and the mountains, And the places I still hope to go. I'll sing of goodness in the morning, I'll sing of faith when shadows fall. And when I cannot see the ending, I'll sing the God who sees it all. Now I know I'm writing psalms, Songs of everything I've lived— Of a God who meets me in the story, And the grace He always gives. There'll be questions and hallelujahs, There'll be laughter, there'll be tears. A life brought honestly before Him, One song for every passing year. I thought that I was writing songs To give my memories a voice. But maybe I was simply learning That a life lived with God Is a life worth singing.
