🎤 Jesus, You Sure You Want Me?

By Obed Yadzo and Adja Lilian Koadade -

🎤 “Jesus, You Sure You Want Me?”

They told me I should pray with big words.
Like “Hallelujah,” “Sovereign,” and “Thy will be done.”
But all I had was,
“God… I messed up. Again.”

They told me to worship with clean hands—
But mine?
Still got dirt under the fingernails of bad habits.



> And I laughed—
Because You’re holy, and I’m…
Well, let’s just say I’m the guy who tried to fast
and lasted ‘til 10:37 AM
when the smell of my mom’s jollof rice broke every chain.



> I’m the one who falls asleep mid-prayer
and wakes up like,
“Wait… where did I leave off? Was I talking about my job or asking for a wife?”



> But You—
You never rolled Your eyes.
You didn’t unfriend me.
You didn’t wait for me to glow-up spiritually.



> You sat in my mess.
In my doubt.
In my overthinking, over-worrying, over-complicating-everything self.



> You whispered,
“I’m not afraid of your shadows.
I’ll walk through your midnight until we find morning.”



> And man…
That moved something in me.



> ‘Cause I thought grace had a limit.
I thought joy was a myth.
I thought calling was for the chosen—and I was barely called to answer texts.



> But You called me.
Not the fake version. Not the Instagram-filtered, Bible-verse-in-the-caption me.
The real me.
The one who still wrestles with bitterness.
The one who’s still learning how to forgive Dad.
The one who smiles in public but cries in the shower.



> And somehow… You weren’t scared.



> You saw my anxiety and said, “Peace.”
You saw my past and said, “Still worthy.”
You saw my scars and said, “Let’s make this art.”



(Pause. Then lighter tone.)

> And yo—
Let’s talk about how You got jokes too!
Like when I said, “God, I’m ready!”
And You said, “Nope. Still cooking. Sit down.”
Or when I tried to run, and You tripped me with a Bible verse.
Or when I finally gave You my heart—
and You said, “About time. I’ve been holding the pieces.”



(Back to passionate tone)

> Jesus, You sure You want me?



> This cracked, chaotic, coffee-addicted child of yours?



> And still, You say yes.
Again.
And again.
And again.



> That kind of love—
It wrecks me.
Builds me.
Transforms me.



> So now I don’t perform.
I don’t pretend.
I just stand here—real, broken, laughing, crying—
and say:



> “Thank You. I’m Yours.”




The legend Lilbed writers

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