Broken Dove

These shackles bind my feet to floor and keep me still within,
But restlessly the Spirit stirs the movement of my limbs.
From shoulders weary—slumped and scarred, a hope begins to rise
As sun shines in and pierces dark to turn my tired eyes
Toward One who lives, though once He died; the darkness held Him down.
It didn't know the Plans of Old, deep rooted in that ground.
His blood flowed down, and as it ran, it cauterized my lashes
And from this back came wings to fly—the feathers from the ashes.
I try to run on winds and soar, but pain brings swift decline.
No strength I have can pull me up. My brokenness is mine.
And just before I hit the waves, Your grace lets me ascend;
I feel You lift me from the depths, I feel the holy hands.

So Music Maker hear my cry, Omniscient know my love.
My gratitude will never end, You mend the broken dove.