God of miracles, we doubt you can move a muscle.
You promise to move mountains and we dare not trust you with a pebble.
It’s a sickness that is rooted in our pride—we love our own hands.
We fancy ourselves makers, kings, queens, and master architects.
Our future is ours.
Our wealth is ours.
Our time is ours.
We’re sick, Lord.
And we confess, we’re not the healer.
But you are.
And you love us not based upon our love for you—but you love us because you made us.
You are maker, we were made.
You are creator, we were created.
You are planner, we were planned.
God of immeasurable grace, give us the grace to trust your hands.
We admit our weakness and we glory in your strength.
It is in your healing power and great faithfulness we trust.