I am a China Doll

I am a china doll. White porcelain and simple paint cover my face and hands. I am plain. I am fragile. One bump from a bubble in the acrylic. One scrape from a fall on the table. One nick from a clumsy visiting hand. But my Maker carefully fixes me, painstakingly restores me to be made whole again To be made once again in His perfect creative image. Each crack, each crevice, each crude blemish added by experience is slowly tended, thoroughly mended to once again be His perfect creation. Then came the crash. A careless move, a sudden jerk, a rush of wind... I am shattered into a shamble of sharpened shards Slightly slicing slowly those who try to pick me up. All try. All fail. The pieces are too numerous, and the injuries are too costly. I am left. I am alone. I am broken. But my Maker looks upon me with a heavy heart. His eyes brim with tears as he sees his work in the dust. He begins to pick me up. His skin begins to wear, to tear, to open, to bleed But He does not stop. At the sake of Himself, He gathers every piece. He carries me to His table and begins to work. He seals my edges with a burning solution. He chips my paint away with a blistering blade. I don't understand why He causes me more pain. I have already hurt so much. He works and He works and He works without ceasing the intensity of His effort or my agony. I wonder how much more I can bear before I break again. Then, He is finished. I am now placed upon the mantle. I do not recognize the figure I see in the reflection of the mantle clock. Her face is fresh with color. There is no trace of scratch or mark or scar. There is no brokenness in her. There is just a perfect work made by perfect hands. I am beautiful. I am a china doll.