Quickthorn read Matthew 5:45, Colossians 2:13-14, Revelation 19:11 for the 182.2’s word #148. “You abandoned yourself to Him. Vindictiveness abandoned Him.”
Quickthorn read Matthew 5:45, Colossians 2:13-14, Revelation 19:11 for the 182.2’s word #148. “You abandoned yourself to Him. Vindictiveness abandoned Him.”
I think Vindictiveless works—and more than merely as an invented word. I understood it immediately: without vindictiveness; emptied of the desire to get even. But I think your septet is doing something subtler than the word initially suggests.
The surprise is that vindictiveless isn’t the same as justice-less.
Revelation 19:11 is an excellent choice precisely because you didn’t portray God as benignly overlooking everything. Christ is Faithful and True, and “in righteousness He judges.” So God’s absence of malice doesn’t require an absence of judgment.
That distinction gives the invented word theological weight:
Justice without malice.
Judgment without spite.
Holiness without petty retaliation.
Humans have trouble separating those.
And I really like the two hands
“Having unending patience and being infinitely good are Your right and left hands.”
That’s such an unusual picture.
If those are the hands that catch you after your youthful leap, then this becomes wonderfully personal:
“I am glad You caught me after I jumped.”
There’s almost a young man’s theology versus an older man’s theology hiding there.
Young:
“I’m giving everything to God! JUMP!”
Later:
That may have been slightly insane.
Later still:
Wait. Who caught me?
And then:
Was it actually reckless to trust the One who defines Faithful and True?
That’s a fantastic question.
Maybe reckless abandonment toward God only looks reckless when evaluated from somewhere other than His faithfulness.
You jumped.
The significant fact isn’t the quality of your jump.
It’s the reliability of the hands.
But line six may be where the song opens
“What is absent from You, as I am robed by Your mercy and grace?”
Initially I read that as asking about God’s attributes generally.
But then line seven answers it:
“Vengeance and malice have abandoned the building.”
I think I’d sharpen one word there conceptually: vindictiveness and malice have left the building, rather than vengeance absolutely, because Scripture can speak of vengeance belonging to God. What you’re rejecting is the human corruption of justice—the delicious desire to see somebody hurt because they hurt me.
And that creates a really interesting movement:
God is vindictiveless.
Then He robes me in mercy and grace.
Uh-oh.
Because now the title starts becoming a prayer about me.
If I’m wearing what He gave me, what am I doing carrying around spite underneath it?
That could become a terrific song:
And I think the uncomfortable line this time is:
You canceled my certificate of debt. And I kept their receipt?
Because that brings Colossians 2:13–14 crashing into human resentment.
Christ cancels the record standing against me…
…and I maintain meticulous bookkeeping for everyone else.
But your original ending has the grin that keeps this from becoming unbearably heavy:
“Vengeance and malice have abandoned the building.”
It almost sounds like an announcement over a PA system.
Attention please: bitterness, spite, scorekeeping, and fantasies of everybody finally getting what they deserve have now exited through the south doors.
And perhaps that’s why Vindictiveless deserves to remain your made-up word.
“Forgiving” isn’t quite it.
“Merciful” isn’t quite it.
“Nonvindictive” sounds clinical.
Vindictiveless sounds like something has been removed.
And after your imagery of being robed in mercy and grace, that absence matters:
I checked the pockets.
The grudge isn’t there anymore.
That feels like a worthy beginning to the V’s.
Me: Thank you, I figured you’d find the core of what I was going for. The abandoning of vindictiveness and malice from the building was meant to mirror my youthful reckless abandonment: both were because of God’s patience and goodness.
Chat: Ah—yes. That makes the architecture much better than I had read it. Both abandonments are responses to the same two hands.
Patience and goodness.
Your younger self encounters them and says:
Then I can abandon myself to You.
Vindictiveness and malice encounter them and, so to speak:
We can’t live here anymore.
That’s wonderful.
So there are two reckless abandonments, but they’re moving in opposite directions:
You abandon yourself toward God.
Vindictiveness and malice abandon the building away from God.
And both movements tell us something about His nature.
That makes this line:
“I am glad You caught me after I jumped.”
much more important. God’s patience and goodness didn’t merely make the leap possible; they made the leap reasonable in retrospect.
From the outside:
What are you doing? You’re giving your youth, ambitions, decisions, future to Someone you cannot see!
From inside the relationship:
Look Who is catching me.
Which gives your next question exactly the right force:
“Is it really reckless to trust in You, when You give Faithful and True their definitions?”
Maybe the truly reckless act would have been not jumping.
And now I would change the song’s ending to preserve your original symmetry rather than turning Vindictiveless primarily into a song about our grudges:
That last idea is the core I’d protect:
Different directions. Same reason.
Because Vindictiveless isn’t fundamentally saying, “God doesn’t get angry and is always nice.”
It’s marveling that the character of God causes things to move.
The trusting person moves toward Him.
Things incompatible with Him move out.
And suddenly “reckless abandonment” isn’t just a nice autobiographical phrase sitting in the middle of the septet. It’s secretly setting up the punchline six lines later.
You abandoned yourself to Him.
Vindictiveness abandoned Him.
Same building.
Opposite exits.
And patience and goodness are standing there holding the doors.