In the quiet of the carpenter’s shop,
Where sawdust dances in sunbeam’s grace,
A gnarled piece of wood lies waiting,
Its rough edges whispering secrets of time.
John, the forerunner, knew such wood,
His life carved by purpose and sacrifice,
A splintered path leading to the cross,
Where suffering met redemption’s embrace.
His voice echoed through desert winds,
Bold and unyielding, like seasoned oak,
Proclaiming the Lamb who would bear all,
As splinters pierced both flesh and soul.
And so, we too stand on this threshold,
Our lives shaped by trials and faith,
The grain of our existence etched by grace,
As we yield to the Carpenter’s hands.
For potential lies within even the roughest,
And hard work transforms the ordinary,
Time, the chisel that carves character,
And endurance births beauty from pain.
Speak truth, though winds howl fiercely,
For the finest things emerge from the hardest,
And in the crucible of suffering, we find,
Not just splinters, but the promise of eternity.
