| Another day begins and I begin the mourning |
| Look in the mirror wonder, what I’m trying for |
| Lately the mirror’s giving me some early warnings |
| Can I make it out the door |
| Close my eyes and move quickly down the hallway |
| Don’t really want to see my picture on the wall |
| I pick a feature could be working on it all day |
| But it wouldn’t change at all |
| So I think of this before I fall |
| I’m made, with my Father’s hands |
| I’m made, with His breath of life |
| I’m, fearfully, wonderfully made |
| Through the window comes the warm Atlanta sunshine |
| And I’m encouraged to think on a different thing |
| The hand that lit the light that brightens up the skyline |
| Turned clay into a king |
| So let the mirror hear me sing |
| I’ll comb my hair a different way |
| Maybe on a better day |
| I could turn a head or two |
| But I’m being manipulated here and only one opinion’s clear |
| And from His point of view |
| With my Father’s hands I’m made |
| With His, breathe of life |
| I’m made, with my Father’s hands |
| I’m made, with His breath of life |
| I’m, fearfully, wonderfully |
| Fearfully, wonderfully |
| Fearfully, wonderfully made |