The Weaving Questions

 The tide crept closer to their feet at the edge of quiet foam,

Where water whispers ancient words of exile and of home.

The Golden Thread lay bright between the drifting sand and sea,

A line of living light that asked what THEY would choose to be.

He watched it shimmer on the swell, then turned away in agony.

As though its steady glow accused each choice he’d failed to make.

“Why were they granted parted seas and empty graves undone?

Why did their eyes behold the works of God’s begotten Son?

Why did they taste the thunder’s voice, see mountains wrapped in flame,

While we are left with printed words and told it is the same?

Why must belief be built on hearing what another swore was true?

Why not split the sky again for me. Prove it through?”

The Thread pulsed softly in her hand but did not flare or bend.

Its warmth a constant presence, not a spectacle to send.

“He gave us proof,” she answered low, “but proof was never the show.

It marked the hour of redemption, not every age to glow.

The witnesses were not deceived by myths their minds designed;

They staked their breath on what they saw, with clarity of mind.

They said, ‘We did not follow tales devised by cunning art,’

But spoke as those whose eyes beheld and burned within the heart.

A house once built upon a stone does not get rebuilt each dawn;

The cornerstone is set, the weight thereafter rests upon.

The miracles sealed the Christ they knew, confirmed what He had done.

You do not pour foundation twice when once the work is won.”

If we are free to turn away from what the heart knows right,

Why warn of judgment’s coming fire and final cleansing light?

How can both freedom and a reckoning stand side by side?

Is love still love when consequence will not be denied?”

The thread stretched bright across the tide, yet never pulled his hand,

It did not bind him. It only shone, a light he could not command.

“Freedom is proven by its cost,” she said into the breeze,

“Not canceled by the harvest grown from seeds like these.

To choose against the law within is still a chosen way.

The warning does not chain the will. It tells you what will stay.

Darkness spreads when hearts prefer the self above the flame,

Yet light remains for any soul that calls upon His name.

He did not promise unbroken ease nor constant skies of clear,

But said He would be near the crushed and share in their fear.

A final washing will come. The wrong cast out, cleaned and whole, 

But love protects, that none be forced in body, mind, or soul.”

The water mirrored constellations trembling on its skin,

And somewhere in that quiet space a shift began within him.

He did not reach, not yet. But neither did he flee,

For questions hung like lanterns over darkened sea.

The Golden Thread lay warm between the doubt and grace,

Not a blazing proof imposed, but present in that place.

And still it asked without a sound, without demand or shove: 

"Will you call it only word… or will you call it Love?"