Lately, I’ve been playing some of the old Hillsong worship songs—the ones that met me before I had language for calling or leadership. Songs that carried me through seasons of becoming.

And there’s one that’s been sitting with me lately: “Hosanna.”

“Heal my heart and make it clean,

Open up my eyes to the things unseen,

Show me how to love like You have loved me…”

It’s been a joy to listen to, but more than that—it’s been a conviction.

Because the truth is, Iv’e been asking God for a fresh word for my soul. But in reality, I didn’t need a fresh word. I needed a return.

Sometimes we keep reaching for new words, new insight, new direction—hoping something will settle the ache. But maybe what we actually need isn’t something new. Maybe we just need to go back. Back to the place where worship wasn’t a task or a transition or a timered-out moment between events. Back to when our hearts broke open at the mention of His name. When tears came easily. When reverence and surrender weren’t awkward or distant. They were the very atmosphere we lived in.

Can I gently ask you something? When was the last time you really worshiped?

Not led worship. Not sang along. Not nodded through a moment while thinking about what came next.  I mean—really worshiped.

Face to the floor. Heart tender. Nothing to prove, nothing to protect. Just you and Jesus? If it’s been a while, this isn’t a word of shame. It’s an invitation.

Because He’s still that near. And He still meets the ones who make room.

There’s a moment in Scripture that’s been stirring this reminder in me.

Nehemiah hears that the walls of Jerusalem are broken and the people are in deep trouble. And his first response isn’t to fix it. It’s to fall.

“When I heard these things, I sat down and wept. For some days I mourned and fasted and prayed before the God of heaven.” —Nehemiah 1:4

He didn’t rush. He didn’t perform. He returned.

And God met him there. Because revival doesn’t start with noise. It doesn’t start with stage lights or strategy. It starts with a heart turned fully toward the Lord again.

Hosanna means “save us.” It’s a cry of desperation, yes—but also of hope.

It’s what the people shouted when Jesus entered the city on a donkey. And even though they didn’t fully understand who He was or what He came to do, their spirits knew enough to cry out. And sometimes that’s all we need. Not perfect words. Not polished prayers. Just a cry:

“God, I need You.”

“God, I remember.”

“God, I’m coming back.”

So, today, maybe you just need a song.

Maybe you need to throw on Hosanna, lift your hands again, and let your heart break open like it used to. Maybe you need to fall on your knees, not to find answers, but to find Him. Because the ground of real worship is the safest place to land when you’re tired of trying to hold it all together. 

So leader, daughter, worshiper—come back.

Back to the sacred place.

Back to your first love.

Back to the floor, if you have to.

And the God who met you then—will meet you again and again.