Once upon a pew, I sat in silence.
Not because I didn’t believe.
Not because I had it all figured out.
But because my hallelujah felt too hard to say.
It was sometime last year that I first heard Brandon Lake and Jelly Roll’s “Hard to Fight Hallelujah.” I remember thinking—this wasn’t your average worship track. This was a confession set to melody. It was the kind of song you sing when you’re not sure whether to raise your hands or hide your face. Every line bore weight, like it had clawed its way out of a dark room and into the light.
And then there’s “It Is Well with My Soul.”
The hymn that has comforted generations.
Written by Horatio Spafford after the death of his children, it speaks not of a life spared from pain, but of peace that persists in spite of it. That line—“when sorrows like sea billows roll”—still breaks me.
But here’s what struck me most as I sat with both songs in my head: They are not opposites.
One sounds like it’s still in the fight.
The other sounds like it’s found its peace.
But both are honest. Both are true.
The Fight to Say “Hallelujah”
Jelly Roll doesn’t shy away from his past—or his present. His song paints the picture of someone crawling their way back to faith, haunted by the weight of regret but still holding on. The kind of person who walks into a church and wonders if they’ll be struck by lightning—or maybe just struck by grace.
There’s something holy about that.
Not polished. Not proper. But holy.
Because some of us don’t come to worship in white robes—we come in ashes. Some of us don’t lift our hands until they’ve first been clenched into fists.
The Strength to Say “It Is Well”
And then there’s Spafford—who, after losing nearly everything, penned the words “It is well with my soul.” Not because life was good, but because God still was. His peace wasn’t denial—it was defiance. A deep, anchored trust that refused to be undone by tragedy.
It’s easy to think that kind of peace only comes once you’ve arrived. Once the pain is processed. Once the storm is passed.
But maybe it’s something else.
Maybe Spafford wasn’t done grieving.
Maybe he was still in the waves.
Maybe “it is well” wasn’t a conclusion, but a choice.
Both Songs Belong
Some Sundays, I come in with a Jelly Roll heart—raw, unsure, heavy.
Other times, I come in with a Spafford soul—still bruised, but breathing peace.
And what I’m learning is this:
God doesn’t need our worship to be perfect. He just wants it to be real.
A hallelujah doesn’t have to be polished.
A declaration of peace doesn’t have to mean we’re pain-free.
The beauty of faith is not that we’re always okay, but that we know who walks with us when we’re not.
So if you’re somewhere between a hard-fought hallelujah and a soul-deep “it is well” — you’re in good company.
You’re not off-script. You’re not off-track.
You’re just honest.
And there’s a kind of glory in that.
