Fix Me, Jesus

Fix Me, JesusThere are prayers that come easily—polished words that roll off the tongue when life feels steady and faith feels strong. And then there are prayers like this one: raw, trembling, and desperate. “Fix me, Jesus.” It’s not eloquent. It’s not refined. It’s not a request that needs explanation. It’s the cry of a soul that’s reached the end of itself.

Fix me, Jesus, fix me.

Those four words hold more honesty than a thousand sermons. They are the heart’s confession that no amount of striving, pretending, or holding it together will ever make us whole. It’s a prayer that admits what pride tries to hide—that we are broken, fragile beings trying to navigate a world that was never meant to satisfy us.

When life knocks the wind out of you, when grief becomes your shadow, when the things you thought were unshakable crumble before your eyes, sometimes all that’s left to say is, “Fix me.” Not fix the situation, not fix the other person, not fix what’s outside of me—but fix me, Jesus. Fix what’s cracked inside. Fix the doubt, the fear, the bitterness. Fix the part of me that forgets who You are when life gets hard.

There’s something profoundly humbling about that kind of prayer. It’s not a request from a person trying to impress God—it’s the plea of someone too tired to pretend anymore. It’s the moment when surrender stops being a word and becomes the only option left. And in that surrender, something beautiful happens.

Because the truth is, Jesus has been in the business of fixing what’s broken from the very beginning. He mends what the world discards. He restores what we’ve given up on. He doesn’t just patch us together; He rebuilds us from the inside out. And when He fixes us, He doesn’t return us to who we were before—we emerge changed, stronger, more compassionate, more whole.

“Fix me for my home on high,” the song says. That line reaches past this moment and into eternity. It’s not just about being repaired for the present—it’s about being prepared for what’s coming. We’re all being shaped, molded, refined for something greater than this life. Every scar, every tear, every prayer whispered in the dark is part of the fixing. It’s not punishment—it’s preparation.

When you ask Jesus to fix you, you’re really asking Him to realign you—to restore your heart to its true design. You’re asking Him to strip away what doesn’t belong and strengthen what does. To teach you to forgive where you’ve been wounded. To show you how to love where you’ve been hardened. To help you stand on higher ground when life tries to pull you under.

“Fix me for my starry crown,” the words continue. That’s not a crown of pride—it’s a crown of perseverance. It’s the promise that the struggles we endure here are not wasted. That the faith we cling to when everything hurts will one day shine like gold refined by fire. Every act of kindness, every prayer spoken through tears, every moment of choosing hope when despair was easier—it all matters. It’s all part of the fixing.

And isn’t that what this life is, in so many ways? One long, sacred process of being fixed—slowly, painfully, beautifully—by the One who made us.

When you’ve walked through seasons of deep pain, you begin to understand this prayer differently. It stops being a plea of desperation and starts becoming a declaration of faith. You begin to see that “fix me” doesn’t mean you’re failing—it means you’re trusting. It means you believe Jesus can do what no one else can.

There have been times when those words have been the only ones I could manage. In the middle of exhaustion, anxiety, or grief—when the world feels heavy and the answers feel far away—that’s the prayer that surfaces. “Fix me, Jesus.” Because I know I can’t fix myself.

And He always answers—not always in the way I expect, but always in the way I need. Sometimes the fixing comes through peace that doesn’t make sense. Sometimes it’s through the love of others who stand beside you when you’re too weak to stand alone. Sometimes it’s through the passage of time and the quiet healing that comes from just continuing to breathe.

Other times, the fixing hurts. Because real healing often does. It means God goes deep—into the places we’ve buried, the wounds we’ve ignored, the walls we’ve built. He brings light into the darkness we thought we could hide. But even in that discomfort, there’s beauty. Because it’s only when the light reaches those places that real restoration begins.

And when you come out on the other side—when the storm finally settles—you realize that the fixing wasn’t about making life perfect. It was about bringing you closer to Him. It was about teaching you that even in your most shattered state, His hands are steady. His grace is enough. His love is relentless.

“Fix me for higher ground.” That line feels like a promise, doesn’t it? It’s the reminder that no matter what this life looks like, there’s always something more ahead—something holier, something purer. We’re not meant to stay in the valley forever. The climb might be steep, but it leads somewhere sacred.

And so we keep praying. Not because we’re broken beyond hope, but because we know hope Himself is listening. We pray because we believe in the power of being remade, restored, and redeemed. We pray because we’ve seen what happens when Jesus steps into the cracks of a human heart—how the broken becomes beautiful, how ashes become purpose, how pain becomes praise.

So if you find yourself whispering these words—maybe through tears, maybe through weariness—know that you’re not alone. You’re joining a chorus that’s been echoing through generations. People who’ve been lost, hurting, and tired have prayed the same prayer: Fix me, Jesus. And every single time, He has.

Because that’s who He is. The Fixer of what the world calls unfixable. The Healer of hearts, the Restorer of souls, the Redeemer of lost causes.

So tonight, or tomorrow, or whenever your spirit feels heavy and your strength runs thin, don’t worry about finding fancy words. Just whisper this one simple prayer:

Fix me, Jesus, fix me.

And then trust Him to do it—piece by piece, day by day, heart to heart—until the reflection you see isn’t weary or broken anymore, but radiant and whole.

Until the day comes when you’re home on high,
and you can finally say, “I’ve been fixed.”