Take a linen cloth and screw it up, wring it tight until the fabric tears,

peel it long and lay it perfectly upon the rock.

Beaten, slashed, crushed, stabbed –

there is nothing in this world so damaged

that it cannot be repaired by the hand of Almighty God,

and this is quite a surprise, the inverse of our given laws.

Take a broken door, kicked and smashed to the egg-box core, and

unscrew it. Lay the new one gently on the grass,

and that is where I am, with one adopted son, him burst.

Grace, too, breaches – violence, the draw of love.

What holds a son of anger who breaks a frame?

What frame holds a son who breaks the anger?

We take a power-plane to work the beads, he and I,

carpenters today, and drill the catch;

blowing chips that clog the cavity.

We, God’s workmanship – not the door, which is poor workmanship –

we are built into a dwelling;

and this is quite a surprise, given how badly all the pieces fit.