Dear God, strip away, bit by bit, carefully and gently, the veneer I so wish to polish. My armor. The face I present to the world, my image, yea, even the face I present to myself. You remove it, piece by piece, and I stand naked in the sunlight on a bare plane.
My finery is in rags, a heap at my feet. My armor rusted in a pile. There is no tree behind which to step, no mound under which to duck. There I am, Lord, for all to see. For me to see myself clearly.
Make me ready to gaze upon all my weaknesses, faults, and transgressions. Let me see and accept my strengths and beauty.
Ignite the pile of costuming at my feet. Let it burn. The sun is shining and the climate warm. I will walk through it as a child of God.