This red, bloody, pulsating thing.
I give it to Him
It’s bruised; having been carelessly mishandled, forgotten and left.
The slightest touch can cause it great pain
What it is good for, I surely don’t know
With gentle hands He takes it and makes it His own.
Why He wants it is a mystery
How He will heal it (if He does), is yet to be seen.
The onlookers are grim
It doesn’t look good, they say
Perhaps it would be better to put it away
To lock it up where it cannot be reached, or held, or hurt any more
I nod in agreement, my eyes pleading, bloodshot and sore
He smiles, “I make all things new”
He says as He takes the heart I can’t bear anymore.