The good Physician uses needle, thread–
Mending places hanging open,
Badly damaged, bleeding red.
In struggle I rose to the heights alone,
Trying to fight the enemy.
With each gusty wind I’d blow.
“Come back down to land,” a voice called to me.
(The Physician saw my broken wings)
“Come be what you ought to be.”
As I fell from cloudy gray, I knew:
I was only battling with myself.
On my own I’m nothing True.
My good Physician has a different way.
He wears my scars on his own back,
Making sadness bright as day.