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.”

---

Come and See

A dialogue-style prose poem exploring the raw questions we would ask Jesus—and the answers He gives.

-By Taylor O’Lynn

Me: Where were you? Where the hell were you when my world fell apart? Do you even care? Or are you just watching from your pedestal while people suffer? Babies die, mothers scream, men become monsters. And you? You do nothing. Tell me why I should believe in a God like that.

Jesus: Your anger is righteous. The world is cruel, and your heart knows it shouldn’t be this way. I know your pain, daughter, I feel it, too. But do you want answers, or just someone to blame?

Me: Both. If you could heal lepers with a touch, why not the whole world?

Jesus: Because healing isn’t just about flesh, it’s about hearts and minds. And most people would rather limp with what they know than walk in what they don’t understand.

Me: That’s not fair. Kids don’t ask for cancer. Women don’t ask for assault.

Jesus: No, they don’t. How much more do you think it breaks my heart for my children to suffer? This world is broken, and you feel it, don’t you? It groans under the weight of its own rebellion. The enemy brought death, but I bring life. And still, the world turns away.

Me: So you just watch? While children cry themselves to sleep? While the innocent suffer? While the wicked go free? Why don’t you fix it?

Jesus: I see it all. Every tear. Every injustice. But make no mistake. I don’t just watch. I became death, bled, and broke so that suffering would not have the final word. But people love the dark because it hides them. Would you really want me to ‘fix’ everything if it meant exposing everything? Even what’s inside you?

Me: That’s different. I’m not a murderer, I’m not—

Jesus: But you have turned away when you should have stepped in. You have cursed men made in my image and let bitterness nest in your heart. You rage against the evil you see, but what about the evil that lives quietly in you? No man is righteous.

Me: Then why even the animals? Why were they hunting, surviving, fighting to live before human sin ever entered the picture? Why must creation suffer for something it never chose?

Jesus: Because it wasn’t suffering—it was design. Before the fall, the lion hunted, the deer fled, the fish swam against the current not in fear, but in rhythm. There was no tragedy, only movement, only life. Death, as you know it, did not exist. There was no separation, no loss. But when sin entered, corruption followed. And what was once design became death. Now even the earth cries, waiting to be made whole again. One day, I will restore it all. But I wait because I am patient, and there are still many more to come home.

Me: That’s not enough. I still don’t get why suffering has to happen at all.

Jesus: Because you think this life is all there is. But I told you—in this world, you will have trouble. Yet I also said, take heart, for I have overcome the world.

Me: So we just suffer and hope it means something?

Jesus: No. You suffer with me, and it is changed. Pain without me is just pain. Pain with me is the soil where joy takes root. Without me, suffering is just suffering. With me, it becomes the doorway to something greater.

Me: And what if I can’t believe that?

Jesus: Then walk with me until you can.

Me: Why? How can I trust you? I don’t even know you.

Jesus: Then know me. Seek me. My word is with you, and it is alive.

Me: How do I know that it’s real? That you are real?

Jesus: Even now, your heart is stirring. Even now, you wonder. But you are waiting for proof when it’s proof that waits for you. Would you expect a child to grasp the mind of a scholar? Then why assume human logic could contain the reasoning of an infinite God? You do not have to understand me fully to trust me completely.

Me: But I want my life. I want control. I want to do things my way, to have what I want, when I want. I want to feel good, to be free, to not have to question everything. But… I'm so tired. Something has to change.

Jesus: You hold so tightly to what you cannot keep, afraid to lose what has already been slipping through your fingers. But what if surrender isn’t loss at all? What if it’s where life begins? If you seek me and find I am not who I say, then walk away. But if you seek me and find that I am, will you still?

Me: But what if you are who you say? What if I’ve been running from the only thing that could ever make me whole?

Jesus: Then stop waiting. Stop hesitating at the door when I’ve already opened it for you.

Me: I'm scared. What if I can't do it? What if I let go, and there's nothing there to catch me? What if I walk through that door and everything I know crumbles? What if I surrender and lose myself?

Jesus: Then you will finally find yourself. You were never meant to carry all of this alone. I will not snuff out a flickering wick. I will not break a bruised reed. I do not promise that the road will be easy. I promise that I will walk it with you. I have always been here, even when you couldn’t see me. You don’t have to understand everything to take the first step.

Me: But I don’t know the way.

Jesus: Then let me lead you.

Me: What if I’m not strong enough?

Jesus: Then lean on me.

Me: What if I still have doubts?

Jesus: Then bring them with you.

Me: …

Jesus: Come and see.

---