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.
By
September 7, 2020