Coming to the end of me,
All the pages read;
Nearing the day I can lay it all down
And be only Your book instead.
Coming to the end of me.
Who knew it would be so hard;
That who I am was so deeply ingrained
And how badly I'd need to be jarred.
I look at You, Jesus--so perfect, so pure;
You're all I could ever admire.
You say I can be like You
And that's what I deeply desire.
But coming to the end of me
Turns out costing much more than I thought.
So often I sit here and moan and complain,
When You're only doing Your part
In bringing me to the end of me;
I still ask You to press on.
I can't stay the same and still bear Your name,
Or sing Your new song in my heart.
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