Looking over the broken pieces, the fragments
That make the fragile vessels of our lives,
I see there is a note cast out
Which had laid unread before I fell
And all of me lay in pieces on the floor.

Too many jigsaw parts strewn
In confusion, melee of colour and memory,
Shine of first gloss, scarred and rinsed,
Shattered vessel of violent life.

Then I read the note from You, and the words,
I was Your own, and precious,
That You could make me perfect,
Through You I could be whole because
Of Your own sacred brokenness.