His Thread
The hands that once stitched for the poor, now shake, A heart that gave all has begun to break. Like Dorcas of old, with her needle and grace, She stares towards the shadows that darken her space. The panic is cold. A sharp, biting frost, Fighting a valley of silence, she feels she's lost. The Thread she has held with lifelong devotion Now slips through her fingers, like mist on the ocean. On the cusp of the ending, she falters in breath, Caught in the web of her looming death. But then comes the Filament, golden and bright, A hum in the marrow, a pulse in the night. It fills up the hollows where agony has crept, Singing of whispers of secrets the angels have kept. "Peace," says the Maker, "I hold every strand, You are not drifting, you’re safe in My hand." The Thread pulls a memory, soft as a sigh: A baby girl’s hug when the moon’s in the sky. The press of her mama’s warm lips on her head, A comfort that lingers where spirits are fed. The eyes of a father, on...
