God is at the loom, unseen,
weaving threads of quiet spirit
through bone and breath,
through sorrow and song,
through the aching of flesh
and the hidden trembling of the mind.
A cut closes without our asking,
scar tissue sealing the wound
as though heaven had leaned low
and whispered into the skin,
“Become whole again.”
Tiny guardians patrol our blood,
immune tides rising and falling,
a holy army clothed in silence,
waging unseen wars
so that life may go on becoming life.
Even the mind—restless, fractured—
finds its rhythms,
balancing storms with calm,
gathering fragments of thought
into a fragile harmony,
like dawn gathering night into day.
In the marrow of relationships,
where hurt and hope entwine,
God threads reconciliation,
teaching hearts to knit
what pride had torn.
And as our species journeyed on,
we learned to join the weaving—
herbs pressed into wounds,
roots brewed to ease the fever,
the wisdom of generations distilled
into tincture, surgery, vaccine—
each discovery a new note
in creation’s hymn of healing.
For healing is the secret song of creation,
a movement beneath the noise,
a pulse in every cell,
a grace that waits upon our yes.
And when we lean into it,
when we open our hands in trust,
we find the ancient words true:
our faith has made us well.
