The Violin Maker

I’m a wretch from the bayou, but a wretch that belongs—
held by a mercy that’s louder than wrongs.

He moves through my shadows, unafraid of my shame;
the voice of the Maker still calling my name.

He found me half‑broken, a violin split—
wood warped and weary, no music to fit.

But He bent in closer, said, “Let Me begin.”
He tuned up my heartstrings and shaped me again.

Relentless, unhurried, He works through the night;
He sands down the splinters and brings me to light.

So here’s what I stand on, the truth I confess:
mercy keeps rising where I make a mess.

I’m a wretch, yes— but a wretch in His hands,
a violin singing what His love commands.

<3 joshua