The frost forgives the blade of grass,
releases it from winter’s grip—
a slow thaw, a bending back
toward light. So too, His hands,
nail-scarred, unfold the air,
and I, brittle with my own breaking,
feel the melt.

Not a loud undoing,
no thunderclap to split the guilt apart,
but a stream wearing stone smooth,
a whisper in the marrow:
You are enough, because I am.

The sparrow doesn’t rehearse its fall,
yet the ground receives it soft.
I stumble, and the earth of Him
rises to meet me—
not a judge’s gavel,
but a gardener’s touch,
pruning what was dead,
calling green from the stump.

The sky holds no memory of storm,
only the rinse of blue after rain.
So His eyes, steady as dawn,
wash the shadow from my name,
and I am held,
small and whole,
in the quiet of a mercy
that knows me better
than I know myself.