Already Rendered
I've forgiven people who never apologized.
Forgiven lies.
Forgiven betrayals.
Forgiven promises that died before they ever reached the ground.
But every time I try to forgive myself,
the prosecution asks for another witness.
Another exhibit.
Another piece of evidence.
Another version of me
I no longer recognize,
yet still somehow stand accused of being.
This sentence should have ended years ago,
But I keep extending my own appeal.
Every time Mercy signs the paperwork,
Regret files another motion.
God dismissed the charges,
But I kept the courthouse open.
I say I trust His judgment,
yet question every case He closed.
Keep searching through dismissed complaints,
for charges He no longer keeps.
I preach redemption to the broken.
Tell them Mercy still remains.
Tell them God can heal a life,
buried beneath decades of stains.
Yet somehow, when the mirror speaks,
the message changes when it's mine.
I offer grace to everyone else,
then place myself outside the line.
For years, I called it accountability.
I thought that sounded strong and wise.
Never noticed self-condemnation
had simply changed its name in disguise.
I wasn't carrying a burden.
I was questioning Heaven's decree.
Acting like the Judge was mistaken
when the accused happened to be me.
The prison door stood open years ago.
I was the one who stayed inside.
Holding conversations with my Guilt
while Mercy waited just outside.
A memory may be a witness,
But it doesn't make the law.
The Judge had spoken long before
I finally accepted what He saw.
God dismissed the charges.
I was the one who would not surrender.
The verdict was already rendered.
I was the last one to remember.
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