Pre-Built

​The crows cry out to a sky of bruised violet,

As the rhythm of the roof-drip slows to a sigh.

He sits by the ash of a fire long silent,

With the hollowed-out look of a man about to die.

Not in body, but spirit, defeated by the night,

While she steps from her room, bathed in the first light.

​She comes from the bareness, from the mattress and the cross.

Having carried his burden, his worry, his loss.

The gold of the sun catches the dust in the air.

Like shimmering filaments, a presence that’s there.

Reassuring and steady, a Thread made of gold,

Wrapping round the exhausted, the weary, the cold.

She looks at the rafters, the porch, and the door.

She speaks with a softness he can’t ignore:

"Every house that we stand in was built by a hand.

An architect’s vision, a blueprint, there was a plan.

And the world, like this house, didn't just rise from the dust.

It was built by a Maker in whom we all can trust."

​He looks at the wood, at the grain and the beam,

Waking up slowly from a dark, restless dream.

The filament dances, a soft light in the gray.

Brushing his shoulder with reassurance as she continues to say:

"Our love isn’t biology, or some trick of the mind.

For love comes from our God, whos one of a kind.

When you look at your daughter, that joy in your chest,

That’s the soul’s deep reflection, the ultimate test."

​He thinks of the girl, of the love that he knows,

And the ice in his spirit begins to un-froz.

She kneels by his side, her voice like a song,

Proving that mercy was there with him all along:

"You don’t need the recipe, the history, or the art,

To know when a feast has been prepared for your heart.

Just taste and see, like a fruit from the vine,

That the refuge is ready, the goodness, divine."

The filament settles, no longer a ghost.

Curling around his heart like a heavenly safe host.

The sun hits the horizon, the shadows decide to depart,

And the healing begins. Deep in the depths of his heart.