the pennies of this life's fortune are making a clanking noise in the plate,
always so disturbing to worship and never ceasing to grieve my soul,
why do we think we do enough when it's just us we satiate,
we've got to get past the way we made ~ it's just taking a toll
90% (or more) for our comfort, coming from the ten we didn't give,
as if that mark was His given to us, rather than what we'd like to bid,
choosing how we will, with these poor lives what we do and how to live,
giving less and less of what we think we owe, which is more than we ever did
exchanging these heavy burdens we continually pass each other,
for paper buckets, demanding my attention as He sings into my heart,
as if they weren't like all we've created to avoid worship, same as any other,
a wasted thing that could be so much more, instead just a sad little empty part
i'm past the plate ~ it's time for worship
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