a line i hoped he'd never write
a word i'd rather scratch
a turn the story didn't need
i thought so anyways.

my author wrote that stormy bit;
its darkness could be felt.
the rain sent shivers down my spine
and quiv'ring to my lips.

the tunnel dark was hard to grasp
why did it need to mar
the beauty of the written piece
that i had grown to love?

the final end, so sadly broken
but wrought by loving hands;
was mended perfect: tearful joy
finished it at last.

gazing on the story past
shed tears of painless joy
washing o'er a journey won
by Another's perfect hands.

my Author wrote the darkness black
to write his mercy bright;
depicted danger, peril, sword;
to bring me safe at last.

the tunnels, darkness, inky night
are needful in His hand
to write our stories of this earth
through feeble years of life.

broken, sinful, ragged, worn;
chosen, rescued, bought;
lifted, cleansed in crimson tide;
and, finally, glorified.