shatter, tattered and torn.

by e

and He’s picking up the broken pieces once again.

no broom, he doesn’t sweep,
 no vacuum, he wouldn’t use it,
  no blower, he ony uses his hands.

we wonder why he still pick them up, the broken bits of glass of a shattered dream and a broken life. Blood drips from his pricked fingers and his hurt palms.

He doesn’t care, he carries on, picking up
                                                            every single


Today, the heart beats out of rhythm, beads of sweat form, enough to make a necklace (Like you would).


He panics.

His head feels like it’s placed in a vice, his lips are bruised from biting.

Hell. It feels like hell. He refuses prayer and encouragement (He wants it but refuses it)

He wonders how far has he fallen. He can no longer cope with the pressure and emotion. He breaks.

Dreams shatter, tattered and torn.

He breaks.


He is not surprised.


Instead of pondering – why? He makes sure every bit is retrieved. He doesn’t bother if his hands are bleeding, He allows his blood to mingle with the broken pieces.

He holds all the broken pieces together.

He doesn’t sweat or flinch. He clasps his palms together till blood entirely seeps through every broken piece and drips to the ground.

It is finished.

And as He opens up His hands. You see the broken pieces no more, instead you see scars on His palms and a glowing Gem. This is a life restored.

Beauty for ashes
 Joy for mourning
  Praise for despair.

This is our God.