You’ve walked the outer edges where the streetlamps start to fade,
Where every mistake is counted and the verdict’s already made.
You looked at Sunday mornings through a pane of stained-glass pride,
And thought, "Those sheltered people don’t know what it’s like outside—
They’ve never felt the cold steel when the system turns its back,
They’ve never had to rebuild when the whole sky turns to black."

So nobody ever told you who the Carpenter really was—
That He didn’t come for insiders who applauded their own laws.
They came for Him at midnight with a paid-off, crooked lie,
Dragged Him through a rigged tribunal and condemned the King to die.
He hung between two outlaws at the edge of everything,
So the furthest soul from temple gates could sit beside the King.

Maybe you’ve been running till your lungs have nothing left,
Caught up in the wreckage of the anger and the theft.
Listen to the timber creak upon that dark hillside:
One man cursed the Savior’s name; the other turned and cried.
He had no time to clean his past, no silver in his hand,
No fancy church vocabulary to make God understand.

Caught between his final breath and all eternity,
He looked into the eyes of Love and whispered: "Lord, remember me."
And Jesus didn’t lecture him or ask where he had been;
The bleeding King of Glory stopped and pulled the outcast in:
"Verily I say to you—before this sun goes down,
Today you’ll walk in Paradise and wear a brother’s crown."

So if you’re in the trenches now, or standing on the line,
Stop waiting till you’re spotless for the Light of God to shine.
Drop the weight you’ve carried long—His blood has paid the fee.
Look up toward the Middle Cross and say: "Lord, remember me."