POIĒMA: His Workmanship with a Pulse

A Poem based on Ephesians 2:10 on the Hands that Wrote Us | By Taylor O’Lynn

I am not random.
Not a scribble in the margins
of a better idea.
Not filler.
Not chance.
Not background noise
to someone else’s crescendo.

I am not the sum
of opinions and observations
held together by skin and thread.

No.
I was authored.

Composed.
Word by word,
with breath on the tongue
and blood on the hands.

Before mountains knew their shape,
before gravity held anything down,
before carbon atoms interlaced,
He held me
In something like longing.

He held me
like a line He couldn’t wait to write
even knowing
what it would cost.

What kind of writer
chooses paper
that will pierce Him?

What kind of poet
bleeds for his workmanship?

This kind.
Only Him.

He did not flinch.
He did not edit the plan.
He did not stop at
“It’s too much.”

He kept writing.
Wrote me through water,
through womb,
through my wrongs,
through my lies,
and family lines
and fragile lungs.

He crafted me
the form and imagery,
these limbs, this laugh,
Knowing my debauchery

And when I cried the first time,
He didn’t recoil.
He rejoiced.
Because the poem
Had a voice.

You can’t tell me
that’s ordinary.

You can’t see the dirt and dust
and think seeds were anything but
planted and watered.

There is too much rhythm here.
Too much deliberate.

My pulse is a line break.
My breath, enjambment.
My thoughts even speak

And still—
still I forget.
Still I want to be
easier to read.
Cooler.
More shareable.
A catchy caption.

But He won’t have it.

Because He didn’t write me
for applause.
He wrote me
for presence.
For communion.
For community.

I am not hung in a gallery.
No, His workmanship walks.

A breathing composition
set to the tempo
of redemption.

And some days,
yes,
I want to cross myself out.
To say this can’t be holy
this mess can’t be set apart,
these flaws,
this fragile skin.

But even then,
He holds me like a first draft
He’ll never give up on.

He calls me
poem.

Not past tense.
Not "was."
Not "used to be."
Am.

I am His poiēma.
His written line that cost Him everything
but He still said
“She is mine.”

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