I was beautifully and
wonderfully made,
with a fragile heart.

Like glass, it shakes when
shouts resonate.
Like paper, it tears
in wind and rainstorms.
Like a twig, it splinters
if anyone applies persistent pressure.

Life, it seems, is made up of a
trillion tiny
silver
hammers.

While others with hearts of titanium
triumph against these,
hearts of gold welcome them,
and hearts of bronze belt a melody
when struck,

my heart
is chipped and bruised.

Without understanding
of how to defend my heart or
prevent the blows,
I let the hammers strike me;
for years, the hammers just
batter
me.

One
day,
I
break.

I shatter.
The wooden paper glass pieces float
around the cavity within my chest.
They poke and puncture
me until I
begin falling,
screaming,
clutching
my breastbone.

While others like me
shrivel whither perish,
in this hour I
have something that they
do not; I
have
a Father.

My loving Father made the hammers that
made me break.
But my Father whispers faintly, "I
am doing something better."

Calmly, He lifts me;
Gently, He quiets me;
Slowly, He dissolves the splintered pieces
and plants in their places
a seed.

He sets me back down onto the ground, but holds
my hand;
He does not let go.

The seed transforms into something
soft and malleable;
it is easily wounded,
but instead of
cracking it becomes
stronger.

The hammers do not cease
to abuse me,
but my heart ceases
to be abused.

I am growing a solid heart,
made of something much stronger
than titanium or gold;

it laughs at life's blows,
it sings out after being hit,
it gives me strength to be alive;
the hammers have made it beautiful.

My heart has been made
with my Father's loving hands,
and by my Father's hands, I
will not be broken.