Purpose

There, in the hand, a small bird
Neatly crafted, complete
But for one wing
One wing in the making
One bird in the hand of the Maker
 
The bird in the hand, a soft weight
Warm with the lifeblood, 
Written, sketched, into being
Being fleshed, dressed in down
Each quill in the hand of the Maker
 
The song, though, already cascading  
With the first word, it started
Forcing wide the beak 
Open - the purpose - the calling
Its calling is known by the Maker

Throat thrums with the dawn of being
Flesh trembles with what it might do
When this cradling ceases
When the wing is constructed
Heart drums in the hand of the Maker
 
The wing unfurling, flight forming
The maker makes flight feathers last
So as to keep the bird
In the palm of His hand, and, 
Thus formed will it know the hand of the Maker

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