When I die, will God the Almighty,
The Father in the sky,
Unpick the warp and woof of what I live?
Will He, bending to examine
What I’ve made, throw down the piece,
Point out the blemishes,
The knotted spots, where spirit strove
With flesh and flesh o’ercame?
Or will He, with a finger
Kind with love, draw out and linger on
The fragile threads of beauty wove therein,
When Christ, oft in disguise, came close
And with his gentle strength gave pause
To hands and spirit overborne
With darkness of the world, the cries of pain,
The anguish of the cold of lovelessness.
And will He then, regarding warp and woof,
Say unto me ----- Even though it’s rough
And poor, you’ve done your best -----
And will He then throw wide the door and bid me enter
And to rest?
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