When I ask in worship, my hands are open wide, the gift is but a vessel, Your presence is my guide.
I whisper hope with reverence, yet bow before Your will, content if You say “wait,” or “no,” for You are treasure still.
When love for You is brimming, desires lose their sting; requests flow out as intimacy, not grasping at a thing.
But asking turns to idolatry when grasping rules my prayer, when what I want eclipses You, and nothing else feels fair.
The thing becomes my master, my joy begins to bend, I cling to it above the One from whom all gifts descend.
So teach me, Lord, the balance to seek, but never own, to long for gifts in worship, yet worship You alone.
