I weep on the grave of my perfection,
and right now I'd like nothing less than to entertain the spirits of failure
that mock me in this place

The dead leaves rest in this cemetery
where I laid to rest what I couldn't carry
the weight of the girl I couldn't be.

And as my tears hit the stone,
I turn to find I'm not alone
and a man approaches, and then he says to me

"Why do you dwell among the dead
when living hope was raised,
and why do you mourn over a battlefield
where I have already claimed victory?"

A cemetery, in my mind,
is no place for a battle
but the man sits down next to me
and whispers "I defeated this already"

With eyes still wet, my fingers trace
the carved words in the epitaph
that mark the place where my perfection
couldn't come from me.

But as his gentle eyes meet mine,
he says "Beloved,
I am your perfector.
No measure of failure could keep my work from completion.
I hold the key to all that you are needing.
Beloved one, align your heart to mine"

I used to weep on an empty grave
but now I live caught up in this grace
in the arms of the man who showed me life.
His name was Jesus.

I drank the poison labelled lies,
and cried the tears of the unsatisfied
With insides burning, fire in my throat
until I found the antidote

it was grace.