The Rosary Maker

September 17, 2017
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Beads filled the little box,

A chain of prayers that detox.
A cross was laid among the lot
A sign of sin duly bought.

I held the life left in my palm,
This artful prayer again my psalm.
Hail Mary’s opened up my eyes,
Closed yet awake; tired yet wise.

The decades went on, slow and sure,
The rosary grew, once more my cure:
To my thoughts and to my death,
And cleaned my soul with every breath.

I murmured my pleas-
My intent- to the breeze,
Holding on to the strings,
I released my words to angels’ wings.

Offering time, honeyed and bright,
Asking for help, for His great light.
An idea appeared, sovereign and soft:
To craft and share what I prayed so oft.

Pliers sat between my fingers,
This feeling of grace, it still lingers.
I trace the outline of my gift,
And past my burdens my soul uplifts.






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