Interwoven, I hold you.
Your life is a series of threads and knots, in your perspective pulled and tangled, terribly, beyond repair. But see now the invisible at work, My careful fingers holding each strand in perfect tension, as I weave the threads together and leave no design unfinished.
Almost like a harpist are My hands over your surface, tuning your soul to such tonal perfection that one touch of My fingertip and your fibres sing, the one note that is yours.
Name your threads. Worry, money, love, sickness, the unknown. Now hand each one to Me, wrap it around My fingers. Let Me create beauty out of the chaos. For through the veil of eternity, in the eternal dimension, your negative image is developed into the real one, and it is that true knowledge of your soul that I am speaking to now.
Who you actually are, not where you are on the timeline. This design has never been seen before—give me the freedom to continue my work, which is the intricate weaving of you. Which is your self unseen, no less real.