There was a stain on my shirt,
Small and pebble-sized,
Barely visible to the naked eye.
But I could feel it above
My heart, and I pressed my hand
To it, trying to cover
Any semblance of imperfection—
I rubbed cold water
Into the fabric, anxiety-ridden
As I scrubbed, scrubbed,

Scrubbed, looking over my shoulder,

As if I would be caught
For a crime unintentionally committed.
I should have known
That washing my faults in worldy water
Would never remove
The stains it had caused. I soaked the
Cloth in tears and
Kneeled before my Father, bowed. 

“Make me new,”
I said, “In your love, Lord, make me
Who you intended me
To be in the womb.” I cried.
The fabric remained
The same, for it was only a shirt,
But my heart began
To thaw and the wounds marring it
From every sin
I tried to hide from God, were
Gently stitched together
With new, soft flesh, in His love.