Colors of thread woven

masterfully together by the

Weaver’s worn hands.

The underbelly knotted

with gnarly bumps, while

frayed yarn yanks back

I pick at the unsightly

places, tempting unravel.

The Weaver removes my

unskilled hand, gently placing

it in my lap; lays it down.

I watch in protest at the

progress. No beauty at the

bottom. The Weaver glides

along, adding strand after

strand of disjointed rainbows.

Time passes joining more

shaking heads in united

disapproval. Curses

rise in lieu of Holy praise.

The Weaver never flinches

at fists. Some walk away.

Others run. Some collecting

the scratch to make their own.

‍

I stay seated for the

duration of the show.

The Weaver finally

satisfied, lifting His eyes

to meet the longing in mine.

“Well done, my good and faithful

daughter.” Beaming broad, turns the

tapestry for all to see

finally complete as He

reveals the endless glory.

A Love story hangs between

wood and nails. It is Finished.