Face down on the cold, tile floor,
A breeze blows strong across my face--
A jet stream under the exit door.
I feel Your peaceful, warm embrace.
You peer at me from behind the veil.
That wood oct' box is humble ware--
A strange throne and a stranger cloth
To clothe the King of Everywhere.
Yet like You I am made to be:
Humble like the King of Kings,
Servant to the servants low,
Servant to my Lord I'll sing.
Yet first I must quick lay me down,
And all that I am grasping to,
But I cannot do such a thing
Unless it's physically true.
And so my face the hard floor hits
And I my bones try to relax
And sink as much as possible
Into the ground below my chest.
For sacramentally I'm made,
And sacramentally I act.
A human still so plagued with sin,
Sunk deep in earthen soil that
What spirit needs to bloom in me
Must first be physically fact.
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