Sitting there comfortably in our chairs,
Always complaining that life’s not fair,
Always demanding what we deserve,
Always insisting our rights—the nerve!
On Sundays we put on our holy hat,
Pretending all week we were just like that.
Our helper, our driver, our family—
They know who we really are, actually.
How can we be called His disciples too
When loving this world is all we do?
Judging the sinners as if we’re all saints;
Lips sealed about Jesus because we’re ashamed.
How much, oh how much of a disciple are we?
Can we love Him and serve Him faithfully?
Do we know what it means to be called His?
Do we know how life-changing His love truly is?
Bartholomew was skinned alive.
Peter and Andrew were crucified.
James was beheaded by the sword.
All of them willingly died for our Lord.
These were His followers until the end.
Committed and selfless were these men.
How can we say we’re His followers too
When we don’t love Him as much as they do?
Do we love Him? Do we love Him?
Can we love Him more?