To Not Say Sorry

Never really good at it,
sayin' sorry that is.

Sure I know I did wrong,
I feel the remorse;
the wrong I did has been done to me,
and I'm sorry for her pain.

But I can't put myself to say sorry,
can't break my composure;
I guess they call it pride,
maybe a big ego?

Either which way, I know it ain't right -
to not say sorry.

I used to just say sorry to God;
I figured, she's a human,
I'm a human,
and so I ain't accountable to her.

But in my heart,
His voice keeps tellin' me,
it ain't right -
to not say sorry.

He's been showin' me some things,
showin' me how to love,
like He does,
at least in part.

Showin' me the responsibility of a man.
If I love her,
which I ought to,
He says I need to say sorry.

And so I do it,
I just pick up the phone and call,
leavin' no room to think it over.

Sorry for bein' an idiot, I say;
I let it spill,
ain't no sense censoring what I know's right.

I've heard too many of those half-apologies;
they ain't really apologies,
'cause it's not about whether my argument was logical,
or rational or any of that.

It's about me not lovin' my neighbor as I love myself,
about me judgin' like He said not to.
It's about me lettin' that old man take the reigns,
only to throw him back down again.