God’s Seamstress

I am unravelled.
The neat stitches,
drawn through soul
and flesh,
by Divine hand
for their exquisite beauty,
soft beneath finger tips,
are ripped asunder
by ragged nail.
Unpicked by Pride.
Torn by Arrogance.
Cut by Sloth.
And I weep,
surrounded by broken threads
unable to make
even patchwork repairs.

Then She comes.
Appearing in the whisper
of the silence,
in the inhale
between each broken sob.
Clothed with light,
married to Glory.
She need not speak
Her eyes say all
as She reaches out
takes up the needle
and swiftly sews.

Threads of the past,
She unpicks mistakes,
repairs frayed edges
of delicate faith,
expertly weaving in
the fabric of the present.
Nothing is wasted.
Nothing is lost.
As She works, She hums
Her melody a prayer,
each stitch
glows a golden hue
in response
to Her touch.

She steps back.
My Son
She says
is ready for you.

(Written: 3.V.19)

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