Work Text:
He stitched the cloth with steady grace,
A quiet care upon His face.
The handkerchief, though worn with years,
Still kept its worth through stains and tears.
"Why save this one," I dared to say,
"when brand new ones could take its place?"
He smiled, though sorrow dimmed His gaze,
"It's been with me through all my days."
I watched the needle pierce and bind,
Each stitch a mercy: cold, resigned.
And in that hush, the thought rang clear:
Would He still want me when I tear?
Will I be held when I decay,
Or cast like things that lost their way?
I did not ask; I just let it be,
And hoped He’d never tire of me.