Laura Story - You Are Love Lyrics

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Laura Story - You are Love - Lyrics

Meaning & Inspiration

I’m still shaking off the dirt from the road. My clothes probably still reek of the pig pen, that sour, heavy rot that sticks to your skin no matter how hard you scrub. When you’ve been living in the trash, hearing someone talk about "beauty" and "goodness" feels like a taunt. It feels like a lie you tell yourself when you’re staring at the bottom of a bottle, wondering if you’re too far gone to ever come home.

But then I hear Laura Story sing, "We were orphans, now you are our Father," and it hits me somewhere under the ribs, right where I’m still sore from the running.

I spent so long convincing myself that I was a self-made man. I walked away with my inheritance and my pride, thinking I didn't need a head of the house. I wanted the feast without the chore, the wine without the work. The problem is, once you’re an orphan by choice, the silence of the field gets real loud, real fast. Being an orphan isn't just about being alone; it’s about having no name to claim you. It’s the kind of hunger that doesn't go away when you eat.

When she sings about being "orphans," it’s not some Sunday morning sentiment. It’s the reality of waking up in a gutter realizing you sold your identity for a handful of ash.

Scripture talks about how we were enemies, strangers—but the part about adoption? That’s the scandal. The Father didn't just open the gate; He ran. He didn't care about the mud on my boots or the smell of the city on my jacket. He just grabbed me.

Laura Story’s words—"You descended from your throne / Gave Your Son for our ransom"—that’s the part that keeps me up. A King doesn't descend for someone who has their act together. You don't pay a ransom for a guest; you pay it for a captive. I was a captive to my own stupid appetites, trapped behind the walls I built myself.

And yet, here I am. Still smelling like smoke, still stumbling over my own apologies, but somehow sitting at the table.

It feels unearned. It feels terrifying, actually. Because if His love is "all consuming"—like she says in the bridge—what happens to the rest of me? Does the fire burn up the parts of me I’m still trying to hide? I’m terrified of being consumed, but I’m more terrified of going back to the trough.

I don't know how to act like a son yet. I keep waiting for the back of the hand or the cold shoulder, but all I get is the robe and the ring. It makes no sense. The justice she mentions, the "justice for every oppression"—sometimes I think the only person I’m oppressed by is me. I’m my own worst warden. Maybe that’s the healing. Not just the sickness in the blood, but the sickness in the head that tells me I have to pay my way back in.

I’m still here. I’m still listening. The smell of the smoke is fading, but I think I’ll keep the memories of it. It reminds me exactly how far I had to come, and exactly how much it cost Him to pull me out.