How Can It Be

There are moments in life when the weight of who we’ve been feels too heavy to carry. Moments when our past mistakes echo louder than our present prayers, and the idea of being forgiven feels impossible. We know our own flaws too well—the words we’ve said that can’t be unsaid, the choices we wish we could take back, the guilt that clings even after we’ve tried to make things right. It’s in those quiet, aching spaces of the soul that grace speaks most powerfully.

“You plead my cause, You right my wrongs.” Just those few words change everything. They tell us that in the great courtroom of eternity, when the accuser points to every failure, every broken promise, every selfish thought, Jesus steps forward and says, “I’ll take it from here.” He becomes our defense—not because we’ve earned His representation, but because love compelled Him to stand where we could not.

There’s something deeply humbling about that kind of love. We live in a world built on transaction—earn your worth, pay your dues, prove your value—but grace is the complete opposite. It’s unreasonable. It’s illogical. It’s scandalous, really. It says that the guilty can go free, that the undeserving can be called beloved, and that our wrongs can be made right by Someone else’s righteousness.

“You break my chains, You overcome.” Those chains come in many forms—fear, shame, addiction, comparison, regret. They may look different for each of us, but the feeling is the same: trapped. And no matter how hard we try to pull free, we can’t do it alone. But then comes this miraculous truth—Jesus doesn’t just hand us the key; He breaks the lock. He shatters what held us captive. The same power that rolled away the stone still rolls away the stones in our lives today—the ones blocking us from peace, from purpose, from freedom.

Sometimes we don’t even realize how bound we’ve been until we start to breathe freely again. The chains were heavy, yes—but the weight of freedom can feel almost foreign at first. Because freedom requires trust. It means letting go of the identity you built around your pain, your guilt, your failures. It means believing that you really are forgiven, that you really are new, that you really are loved.

And that’s where the most haunting line of all comes in: “You gave Your life to give me mine.” There’s no metaphor here. It’s not poetic exaggeration. It’s the heart of the gospel itself. He didn’t give His life so we could feel a little better about ourselves. He gave it so we could live. So we could rise from the graves we’ve dug, walk out of the prisons we’ve built, and learn to breathe grace instead of shame.

That kind of exchange defies comprehension. It’s not fair. It’s not deserved. And that’s the point. We’re not meant to understand it fully—we’re meant to be changed by it. The cross wasn’t just a moment in history; it’s the eternal turning point of every human story. Because of that cross, every sinner has a future. Every broken soul has a path back home. Every tear has meaning. Every scar can become a story of redemption.

So when the song ends with “You say that I am free—how can it be?” it’s not a question of doubt. It’s a whisper of awe. It’s the same wonder that comes when you realize the storm you thought would drown you has gone still. When the burden that once crushed your chest has been lifted. When you finally feel the light touch of forgiveness, and it doesn’t just cover you—it seeps into you, changes you, revives you.

How can it be? How can a love so perfect chase after hearts so flawed? How can mercy be so relentless, so undeserved, so unwavering?

Maybe we’ll never fully know. Maybe that’s what makes it holy.

Because grace was never meant to make sense—it was meant to make us whole.

And that’s the mystery of the gospel: the more you think about it, the less you understand it, but the more you live it, the more you realize it’s true. You see it in the way peace creeps in where panic used to live. You see it in the way joy finds its way back into the spaces grief hollowed out. You see it in the quiet confidence that even on your worst day, you are still loved beyond measure.

That’s what Jesus does. He pleads our cause, rights our wrongs, breaks our chains, and then looks into the eyes of the undeserving and says, “You’re free.”

And somehow—through tears, through awe, through gratitude too deep for words—we begin to believe it.

Not because we’ve earned it.

Not because we understand it.

But because love like that can’t be denied.

So when life feels too heavy, when shame tries to whisper that you’ll never be enough, remember this: the verdict has already been rendered. The debt has already been paid. The chains have already been broken.

And freedom—real, soul-deep, everlasting freedom—is yours.

How can it be?

Because He said so.