Broken on Purpose

They swept up the pieces after the storm.
The window man said something I can't forget.

(stained glass)

The chapel window shattered
in the August wind that year;
we gathered every colored shard
in boxes, wet with tears.
The craftsman spread them on his table,
studied every broken line,
then said, "Don't grieve the breaking, folks —
broken glass is by design."

He never cuts a whole pane, see —
he breaks it, every one;
'cause light can't dance through perfect,
but it sings through what's undone.

We're all stained glass — (stained glass)
broken on purpose, held by grace.
The cracks are where the morning gets in;
the light needs every shattered place.

Stained glass. (held by grace)
Broken. (on purpose)

(the light needs every place)

So when my own year shattered —
the diagnosis and the debt —
I sat in that rebuilt chapel
while the sun climbed up the west.
And the window threw its colors
clean across my folded hands:
every wound in me lit crimson, gold —
like even scars had plans.

He never cuts a whole pane, see —
he breaks it, every one;
'cause light can't dance through perfect,
but it sings through what's undone.

We're all stained glass — (stained glass)
broken on purpose, held by grace.
The cracks are where the morning gets in;
the light needs every shattered place.

Truth is, I asked the craftsman what holds it all together.
He smiled and tapped the window's dark leading:
"The lead. The scars themselves.
The breaking is what lets it bear the light."
Lord, lead my broken lines.

Mm. (every shard)
Mm. (every line)

(the breaking bears the light)

We're all stained glass — (stained glass)
broken on purpose, held by grace.
The cracks are where the morning gets in;
the light needs every shattered place.

Sunday morning, the window blazes.
Nobody sees the seams. God does. He calls them design.

(stained glass)