The Worship Song

What strange condition
I am down upon my knees
Worshiping a King I barely love
My father listens
To each sacrilege I speak
The same fingers on these strings
Are covered in his blood

But I'm still singin'
In my own unworthy way
With nothing but his mercy
And a debt I'll never pay

God bless these worthless things
That my mouth can't help but say
Bless the hymn I'll never play
Worth half the praise you're owed
God bless these two left feet
That can't help but lead and dance
Bless these two unsteady hands
Still bloody with the God they've aimed to please
And though they won't
I still can't help but try
So father bless these filthy rags of mine

I can't debate it
Every word left on my tongue
Every breath inside my lungs
Will go to waste
I hate to hate it
But when this set is said and done
Every chord I've conjured up
I may as well have never played

So I'll sing these sterile words from off the wall
But this tune my tongue so stammers seems to barely be a song
And yet you say you welcome my respect? However small?
How strange for you to be
So willing not to see
The lengths between enough and none at all

God bless these two left feet
That can't help but lead and dance
Bless these two unsteady hands
Still bloody with the God they've aimed to please
And though they won't
I still can't help but try
So father bless these filthy rags of mine