Sunlight robed in Sunday best,
sky, the sea on canvas brushed,
leaves in rustling autumn vest
swayed to whispered wind-worn hush.
Branches opened fists of wood,
letting go of season past,
and I, who underneath it stood,
saw Your hand, and gripped it fast.
Image courtesy of El Bueno, El Feo y El Malo
Created in Your image,
yet torn am I.
Fragile fragments, whisper-thin shadings
delineate my frame,
a dress-maker’s form
bereft of substance and style.
You alone know the hidden places
where the bits of me lie;
put me back together,
render Your fingerprint
in high relief on each segmented scrap.
When Your signature
sews me shut,
stops the gaps,
the Masterpiece of me
will glow with Your glory.
Put me back together,
make mine a heart undivided and whole,
that I might parade Your Power
from bill-board heights.
Meanwhile, Melody Muses... 