Not Yet Already

O God, we are roaches:
The closer your light, the faster we flee to darkness.
O Lord, we are moths:
The brighter your radiance, the closer we long to fly.
O God, we are a stiff-necked people:
Grafted into the tree of those whose fathers stoned the prophets.
O Lord, we are penitents:
Naked before the throne of mercy, pleading the blood.
O God, we are slaves,
Sold under sin, bought with righteousness,
O Lord, we are sons,
Not by our merit but your adoption,
Not by right but grace.