Rend Collective - Simplicity Lyrics

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Rend Collective - Simplicity

Meaning & Inspiration

My hands aren't as steady as they once were. When I hold these old, worn hymnals—the ones with the spine reinforced by masking tape—the paper feels thin, like it’s barely holding onto the ink. It’s funny how, after a lifetime of trying to build things up, of stacking up theology and pride and busy work, you eventually find yourself wanting nothing more than the quiet.

Rend Collective wrote this back in 2014, and there’s a line in there that catches me every time I sit in the dark of my porch: "Lord strip it all away, 'til only You remain."

When you’re young, that sounds like a bold prayer. It sounds like an act of bravery. But when you’ve lost a few things—when the house gets quiet, when the friends move on or pass on—that prayer takes on a sharper edge. You start to realize that if God actually answers that, if He really strips away the things you used to define yourself by, you might be left sitting in a very empty room. It’s terrifying. And yet, it’s the only place where the air finally feels clean enough to breathe.

There’s a bit in Revelation 2 where the church in Ephesus is told they’ve done plenty of good work, they’ve endured, they’ve been patient, but they’ve lost their first love. It’s a strange thing to be a believer for decades and realize you’ve become a professional at the motions while the actual pulse has gone a bit faint. I’ve spent years "doing" for God. I’ve volunteered, I’ve organized, I’ve argued over doctrine until my throat was raw. But does that equate to love? Or is that just me trying to pay my rent in heaven?

The song talks about coming back to that first love, and I find myself wondering if I even remember the way back. It’s not a physical path. It’s a shedding.

I think about the phrase "I come with my broken song." Most of the time, we’re terrified of showing up empty-handed. We want to bring Him something polished, something that shows we’ve got it all sorted out. But the songs that have held me up when the lights go out aren’t the ones that were sung in front of thousands with flashing screens. They’re the ones I’ve whispered when I didn’t know if I had enough faith left to get through the night.

If I’m being honest, I don't know if I’m good at "singing" anymore. My voice cracks. My heart feels a bit like those old hymnals—dog-eared and torn. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe the "broken song" is the only one He’s actually interested in hearing. The rest of it—the pretense, the history, the awards—that’s all just clutter. It’s all just stuff He’s waiting for us to ask Him to take away so we can finally sit down and just be, without needing to perform.

I’m still working on that, I suppose. I don’t think I’ll ever be finished with the stripping away. But as long as the breath is there, I might as well use it to say the only thing that’s ever mattered.