The Ship That Would Not Sink

The Ship That Would Not Sink

The ship was good—

the Craftsman said so Himself.

He fit every plank tight,

sealed every joint,

set the course by the stars.

But someone had started a rumor

that it was sinking,

and soon we were all

fighting for the life-rafts,

measuring worth in doctrine,

tallying faith in cubits.

They patched sails with theology,

wove ropes from scripture threads,

debated which of us

was pure enough to make it,

who had read the map correctly,

who had memorized the right verses

to claim a seat on the raft.

Some whispered of escape,

lowered dinghies in the dark,

redrew charts to safer shores,

mistaking abandonment for salvation.

Meanwhile, the Craftsman

knelt where the decks were bloodied,

scrubbing stains with bare hands,

whistling as He worked,

as if the ship weren’t sinking,

as if the journey still held promise,

as if the sea hadn’t already

claimed us all.

They saw Him there,

hands raw from splinters,

eyes fixed on the horizon.

They thought Him a fool.

But He kept to the task,

stitching sails in the night,

never once looking for a raft.