A single thread around his hand, Too small to make him stop. It looked so weak, so innocent; He never saw the knot. It faded into every day. He barely felt it anymore. What started as a single strand Began to weave a cord. Threads become cords. Cords become ropes. One thread… Then another… Quiet as a creeping vine. Growing unseen. Hardly a sound. Taking hold, one choice at a time. By the time he saw the danger, Cord had become rope. The rope grew thicker year by year, Fed by every compromise. It whispered, “You’ll still walk away,” While tightening its ties. He fought with all the strength he had. The rope just pulled him low. The harder that he fought alone, The tighter it would hold. Strength ran empty. Hope wore thin. One cry… Heaven heard… Mercy reached with wounded hands. Loosening knots. Untwisting fibers. Working through the woven strands. Every fiber Knew the Maker’s touch. No rope that’s woven over years Can stand against His grace. No tangled strand remains the same Beneath His kind embrace. Whether all at once, Or strand by strand, Every cord surrendered To His hands. One strand… Then another… Every knot had lost its claim. Rope lay open. Hope stood near. Freedom called him by his name. When the final strand surrendered, Nothing held him anymore. Every thread That sin had woven… Lay unraveled Upon the floor.
