Monday, May 2, 2016

Of the Desperate

551 - Copy

Brushing the robe, halting hesitant,
two fingers barely touched the hem—
bleeding pain and disappointment for years and tears.
It was a desperate touch, a face-to-ground, weighted-down touch.
And in the moment He knew, and I knew.
In the jostle of swarming feet, flying dust and flailing pleas,
insignificant me,
me on the fringe,
gripped the fringe of his garment; and in one moment, the tiny thread that held me tethered to life and hope became sacred bonds of the everlasting,
and I was healed. 


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