If I could thread my needle with the shining silk Belief,
I'd weave it through the weft and warp of human disbelief,
and watch the silk transform into a thousand colour shades,
as it began formation of a wondrous tapestry.
Stitch by stitch among blood spots my clumsy hands would weave
a moving scene as it evolved, to show itself to me,
Gethsemane the Garden, with disciples shown asleep
as Jesus prayed upon His knees, a few short steps ahead.
His earnest prayers to Father God would show His agony,
with His sweat, like falling blood, appearing on the sand.
Then as I watched this scene unfold, I'd fall upon my face,
to offer thanks to Jesus Christ, from our reluctant race.