The snapped crayon,
splintered in weary hands,
no longer whole, no longer perfect—
just a fragment of what once was.

God gathers the pieces,
pressing them against the canvas of eternity,
where cracks do not limit color,
but deepen its depth, its meaning, its grace.

The jagged edges, the worn-down tips,
the wax too melted to hold its shape.
He does not discard, He does not despise,
for in His hands, brokenness becomes beauty.

He shades the sky with sorrow’s indigo,
fills the dawn with mercy’s gold,
etches love in crimson sacrifice,
and draws redemption in hues of hope.

The world sees ruin;
He sees a masterpiece unfolding.
For even the broken can color light into darkness,
even the shattered can still be used.

And so He takes the crayon,
the one that thought it had no purpose left,
and with steady hands, He creates
something breathtaking
only brokenness
could bring to life.