On Being A Hypocrite

"Worthy"
A word I whisper through quivering lips. A word I hope to shout into the dust one day, my head bowed low before a bloody Lamb (and an untamed Lion).

"the twenty-four elders fall down before him who is seated on the throne and worship him who lives forever and ever, saying, "Worthy are you, our Lord and God, to receive glory and honor and power, for you created all things, and by your will they existed and were created."

But right now, I can only whisper and tremble. A hope on the edge of caught breath. A hope that I'm not instantly judged for hypocrisy. The word represents a life lived in honor of that cry. If He is worthy of glory and honor and power, then by extension, I am not. And somehow in the path from head to hands, the signals get mixed in misfiring synapses and I live the opposite of what I say. (I am the one that they warned me about).

It's so odd. I know I'm marching steadily towards a judgment day, but it seems I can't help but veer off onto side streets and meander back alleys where I would be ashamed to finally meet my Maker.

I'm quite winded from the running. Every time I catch myself in a neighborhood dimly lit by red lights, and I sprint to the narrow road I was on. Yet I seem drunken with irrationality, and with staggering steps, my feet find the deadly descending path again. My heart beats hard as I fight my way back to the finish line few find - I'd like a rest. I'd like the Rest. I want to exercise my lungs, not by panting, but by shouting and singing.

But I need help, because when I add up all the good things that make me righteous, the sum total comes to Pharisee. And Jesus words keep ringing in my ears like the funeral dirge of church bells:
"For I tell you, unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven."

I'm a damnable hypocrite (but not a damned one). You see, somewhere along this vapor line called life, I had Jesus knock at my heart's door. I didn't answer - so He kicked it in, grabbed me and pulled me into His kingdom, all without my permission, I might add. And somewhere in that tussle, we switched clothes. I took on white, Downy-fresh linens, and He donned my putrid, mud-caked rags (that reek of the dump).

There's no way to be more righteous than the Pharisees. Except to be perfect. And nobody's perfect.
Oh wait, there is one other way. If for some reason, God somehow decided to give you the righteousness of somebody who was perfect. But why would He do that?

Sidenote: the moon is full tonight. It's dangerous for me to drive because that same gravity that lifts the oceans keeps lifting my eyes. She will never stop wooing me.