I know the weight you’re carrying—
the hush of secrets in your chest,
the way guilt coils like wire
around your ribs
and squeezes every breath.

I know how your smile
can mask the tremor in your soul,
how you pour yourself into good deeds,
hoping somehow
to rinse the stains
you wish no one would ever see.

You call yourself a liar, a fake,
because your lips preach hope
but your heart feels locked
in rooms of shame,
echoing with things
you wish you’d never done.

You work, you give,
you serve, you provide—
and sometimes it’s love,
yet other times it’s guilt.
You’d give your own skin
for forgiveness
if you could.

You drink, you run,
you spin the wheel,
you tell yourself
you’re beyond repair.
Listen closely—
you are not!

Your secrets don’t shock God.
Your failures haven’t written
your final chapter.
Grace still stands
at your door,
unafraid of your mess.

You fear truth will burn
all you’ve built to the ground—
and maybe it will.
However, ashes are soil
where new life grows.
Better ruins than prisons.
Better wounds than chains.

There is someone out there
who needs you present—
not perfect.
The people who love you
need your truth,
even if it shakes
their world for a while.

Hope isn’t just for saints.
It’s for prodigals,
for double lives,
for trembling souls
who can’t believe
they’re worth a second chance.

So let me remind you—
though your shame
screams otherwise:

Your worth is not defined
by your worst choices.
It’s defined by a God who still thinks
you’re worth dying for.