It’s strange how the songs we sang back when can take on such different meanings after a departure from fundyland. If we sang the dirge-like straing of Lord I’m Coming Home once we probably sang it a thousand times. But now whenever I hear it, it sounds a bit like this:

I’ve wasted many precious years, (spent in legalism and judgment thinking I was better than others)
Now I’m coming home;
I now repent with bitter tears, (tears of regret over my ignorance and blindness to my fellow man)
Lord, I’m coming home.

I’m tired of sin and straying, Lord, (tired of pride. weary of hatred. exhausted with judgmentalism.)
Now I’m coming home;
I’ll trust Thy love, believe Thy word, (because now that I’m actually reading your words I’m surprised to learn that You love everyone.)
Lord, I’m coming home.

My soul is sick, my heart is sore, (sick when I look back at who I was. sore when I see those who still labor under that burden)
Now I’m coming home;
My strength renew, my home restore, (It’s s scary world out there beyond the walls of fundyland but now I look for a city made not with hands.)
Lord, I’m coming home.

My only hope, my only plea, (not me. not my rules. not my perfection. not my standards. not my cleverness.)
Now I’m coming home;
That Jesus died, and died for me, (Jesus? Funny how we always sang about him but never talked about him. He’s wonderful if you really get to know him.)
Lord, I’m coming home.

How very new and strange those old words seem now.