The steam rose slowly from my cup,

A warm and bitter, quiet grace,

Before I dared to glance right up

And look upon His patient face

He sat across the wooden space,

Resting His hands upon the grain

The smooth, worn table keeping pace

With silence that relieved my pain

I cleared my throat; the silence broke,

My coffee cooling in my hand,

I leaned right in, and softly spoke

To ask what I must understand.

How could you choose me from the start?

Before my birth, You knew my name.

What is the purpose of my heart?

What is the path You wish to claim?

You want me to go out and tell

of how you turned the water sweet,

How lepers leapt, made whole & well

And thousands were given bread to eat.

But Lord, do I know You at all?

Am I equipped to speak of Your grace?

I tremble when I hear the call;

I lack the courage to boldly praise.

Sometimes I am too small & weak,

And selfishly, I hold you near—

I want you just for me, I speak

To keep you safe from doubt and fear.

But then a fire starts to rise,

And just want to scream and shout

It’s Him! The Christ before your eyes!

My Friend, my Redeemer, beyond a doubt!”

I looked down at the wooden board,

and wept for what I couldn’t pay

“I couldn’t buy a coffee, Lord”

A single ounce of grace today.

Yet here I sit, a broken guest,

While You prepare a royal seat,

And lay Your life down as a feast,

To make my tattered soul complete.