Healing Hands

I am a robe torn by grief
My pieces lie across the cold ground
I was certain that nothing cold be done
And my grieving would last unbearably long

Picking up my pieces
I am handheld by You
With a loving gaze
Your eyes are drawn upon the trail of my fragments
You find purpose in them

And you begin…

Weaving through and through
This needle and thread pull me tightly in place
You’re bringing me back to a recognizable form
One that reflects Your craftsmanship
One that bares Your beauty
One that encompasses style and grace

I can BE again…

For I am being healed in my Masters hands

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