The Spread of The Thread

 At dawn, there walked two travelers on the seam of the waking land,

Where dew stitched silver hymns along the quiet sand.

One saw a glimmer, spun through sky and root and breath,

A golden thread that hummed softly beneath the hushed silence of death.

The other stared at distant hills with pure restless stride,

Convinced that all the ache was something which had to be earned inside.

“If I could just get there,” he swore against the air,

“I’d outrun all my wrongs and leave them lying there.”

But she had felt that Filament wind warm around her wrist,

A living Strand of mercy held onto her whithin the morning mist.

It pulsed with joy like sunlight breaking through a seam,

A Composer’s hand inside Creation’s thoughts. A living dream.

She did not claim the road was free of pain, thorn or scar,

Nor say the night would ever spare them from living where the shadows hidden are.

Yet through the bramble’s clutch and doubt’s accusing thread,

She felt Love breathe where even hope seemed dead.

“I see design,” she whispered, kneeling by a stone,

“Not accidents, but beauty carefully sown.

Each trembling leaf, each flicker of a sparrow’s urgent wing,

Is signed in light by One who names each and everything.”

He shook his head. “You only see because of need.

The need to blame your pain on fate instead of seed.

My wounds are MINE. My failures; my own.

I walk because I must. I walk alone.”

She touched the Thread and answered soft but clear,

“Your heart still knows what’s right. Though you can not hear.

A law was etched where even doubt couldn't sever.

We’re free to turn away from the truth… to choose ignorance forever.

For freedom is not shattered by the lonely fall,

And your consequence does not erase the Holy Call.

It proves that Will was given room to choose,

And love still stands though we try and refuse.”

He faltered then. Shaking his head. “If love is real and wide,

Why does it let me wander starved inside?

Why must I remain in rooms where no one stays?

Why does God leave me in these hollowed days?”

She stopped. Breathed a prayer of thanks for sight and scar,

For mercies that had met her in plenty. In life is where they are.

“The Lord is near the broken heart,” she said,

“Not distant from the tears you’ve shed.”

“And do not fear,” she murmured to the wind,

“For Presence walks where you have been.

Feeling forsaken is a human cry.

Even Christ once asked the sky, ‘Why?’”

“The cross itself holds proof of His embrace:

That loneliness can touch the Holiest place.

To feel abandoned does not mean it to be true.

It means you ache, as all our hearts do.”

He turned away, still staring at the height.

“I’d believe,” he said, “if He would just fix it right.

If He would and could give me all I lacked before,

I’d open every shut, closed off and bolted door.”

She answered gently, voice both firm and kind,

“If youth were crowned within the things you pined,

In cruelty’s storm and pain’s unyielding rain,

Would you see light so bright. Or only the stained?

If every hunger vanished at His command, 

Would you still seek the unseen, trust the hand?

Or would comfort cloud your sight,

And dim the hunger for the Light?”

The golden thread grew brighter at her side,

Not forcing him, not pulling with a tide.

It waited. Warm as breath upon the skin,

Alive with joy, inviting him within.

“For God withholds no chance,” she said at last,

“Nor seals your future to your past.

Sometimes He shapes us in the quiet years,

In hidden fields watered by tears.

Alone does not mean passed over or denied.

It may be in the ground where roots grow wide.

The thread is there . I promise it does not sever.

He waits in love… and He will wait forever.”

And still they walked beneath the turning sky,

One asking how, the other answering why.

Between them stretched the living strand.

Not control, but love by a gentle Hand.

For free will stands where love allows

The choosing heart is its sacred vows.

And beauty hums in every Golden Thread.

By the Weaver’s voice, Creation led.