Handwritten journey

 

A camera rests in gentle hue,  

Its strap like arms that cradle truth.  

Not just a lens, but sacred glass—  

It captures moments meant to last.

No borrowed frame, no echoed line,  

No tracing of another’s spine.  

Your story isn’t secondhand—  

God didn’t type it, He wrote by hand.

Each chapter inked with holy care,  

Each tear, each triumph, laid bare.  

No template fits the soul you bear,  

No shortcut to the love you wear.

Comparison may dim your light,  

May whisper lies in quiet night.  

But your own path, though steep and wild,  

Is kissed by heaven, deeply styled.

He saw the laughter in your eyes,  

The way your children chase the skies.  

He knew the ache behind your grace,  

The strength it takes to hold your place.

So when you feel you’re not enough,  

Or life gets tangled, loud, and rough—  

Remember: you’re a living scroll,  

A masterpiece, a heart made whole.

Lift up the lens, and let it see  

The beauty in your bravery.  

The way you love, the way you lead,  

The way you plant each hopeful seed.

No one else can wear your shoes,  

Or sing your song, or pay your dues.  

You are the art, the brush, the flame—  

Not just a story, but the name.

So hold the line when storms arise,  

And trust the Author, wise and wise.  

He didn’t copy, didn’t rush—  

He wrote your life in sacred hush.