You hain't failed me yet; you won't fail me ta come.

I'm a rapscallion and a profligate, and yet I think I can satisfy my Father's hatred of my sin and wickedness by providing him with a decent recompense for my nice, little, tidy works to help my fellow man out. Am I wrong! Self-justification: it's the disease of this age. Mankind's stiff neck, I think. I once heard you say that it's like dirty rags--my righteousness, that is. That would leave me hopeless. So where's the other side of the equation? Do we walk in circles: damned if we do; damned if we don't. But I think not, for you're much bigger than that and capable of more than we could ever think because you gave up your strength to become weak in our place. You were humbled beyond humiliation and suffered so that our suffering would be measured with hope. You took it, and we ran free. Grant us to submit to you and break our tight, obstinate necks. They're unsettling, aren't they. Change us, yes; change us by your blood. It's the only thing we can take. Yes, yes, yeah.

Hair yesterday; gone today

One of the best things about having a receding hairline is that it helps you realize the futility of the vainglorious god of style. God sacrificed that strait short so that I'd turn away from futility. It's better this way.