I The Coloring Book, Revisited

You colored me in soft blues and greens,

Hard purples and reds.

Little black specks, to accentuate my most precious places.

You blurred the colors together. . .

so it is hard for me to see...

who it is,

I am,

anymore. . .

The edges of my body,

the outline for your work.

The insides forgotten

as you busied yourself coloring. . .

If only it were beautiful.

If only you had just torn out this page.

 

But He—

 

He saw the smudges and the bleeding edges,

traced every bruise like a sacred map.

He didn’t tear the page—

He turned it.

 

Where you left chaos,

He brought color.

Where you broke me,

He began to rebuild.

 

With golden light,

He lifted the shadows,

stitched the torn canvas

with threads of purpose and flame.

 

Ashes gathered in His palms,

and from them,

He painted wildflowers.

He made beauty bloom

in places I thought were only

wreckage.

Now—

these lines,

these wounds,

they speak.

 

They speak of survival,

of a hand that never let go,

of a love not built on pain

but on promise.

 

You called it the end,

but He calls it the beginning.

And I—

I will rise,

a masterpiece still in the making,

formed by fire,

carried by grace,

and alive with purpose.