I don't ask God for mercy. I don't say it nicely or in a calm voice. It's not something I casually bring up with a smile. It's not even something I think about often.
I don't ask God for mercy. I beg for it. I plead and I cry out. I'm on my knees or I'm curled up in the corner or I'm sprawled out on the floor. Vulnerable. Desperate. Clinging.
Because I need mercy the most when I deserve it the least. When I can't pretend anymore. When I can't defend myself. When I've exhausted every other option except to shut my eyes tight and pry my heart open and admit that I am in need of a pardon that I'm unworthy of.
I don't want to be bound by my mistakes. Chained to my bad decisions. Held under the water by the weight of my recklessness. So I beg. For mercy. For pardon.
I'm worried that I've run out of chances. That I've taken it all for granted one too many times. That there isn't enough mercy to repair the damage I've caused.
And then. All of a sudden I'm wrapped up in the arms of a cashmere mercy. Luxurious and warm and comfortable and extravagant. I can't afford it. I don't deserve it. And yet I'm unmistakably clothed in it.
My dirty rags are thrown into the fire. They are ashes. And I don't remember what they feel like. I'm clean-slated. Proven innocent when the evidence says otherwise. Released when I should be imprisoned.
And this cashmere mercy feels so good against my skin. And I never want to forget what it's like to be tangled in it. And I never want to forget the One who won't let me go.
And there is glory. Always, there is glory.