Minor Prophets Are For Getting Kicked Around

The living words of dead Malachi echo through my mind, and sentences I would never say aloud, I scream in my black, mad heart. God levels His accusations and my soundless questions echo back, hollow and dismal before divine logic.

The people had not given their best. They had promised it, but held it back.
They say, "You get my best lamb, God", and then they switch to give Him the blind gimp sheep.
The priests had defiled the temple. The priests, the hallowed and consecrated protectors of the temple's purity had let the filth in. And God brings the fury of the whirlwind down.
"Where is my honor?" He bellows at them and me.

Lord, I have not give you honor. At least, not the honor I promised. And wrath is restrained by mercy again.
"For I the LORD do not change; therefore you, O children of Jacob, are not consumed."
I want to dedicate again, but it will be the same old story. It will be the same worshipful frenzy as the last time I promised my best.

I think many are with me. Many are the empty promise-makers. Many are the lamb-switchers. Many are we who live the half-hearted, unremarkable lives of the lukewarm. Are you with me? Will you fight to give the radical best of your flock, of your life to Him? Would you live homeless for Him? He does not promise a mansion on earth (but heaven, oh yeah).
Would you walk worthy?

Or will we face His displeasure?