He reached out His hands, hands so strong and steady. He reached out for me, a feeble handed erratic soul. I wasn't worth His attention, I wasn't even worth any mockery. But it wasn't mockery that I saw. It was Love. Love for me. A vagabond. An orphan by choice. A slave of my sins. A fugitive. He reached to me in my darkest hour. I was curled up into a ball in a dark alley of rejection and betrayal. The scars the He clearly saw in me were mostly self-inflicted. I played with fire, and I got burnt. Now it was time to meet my defeat, to give up the shred of life I had left and submit to the falling skies. But he had come to rescue me from myself and from the fate I deserved. With stone-cold, tired eyes I managed to look up at Him. His sensitive face looked hurt and abandoned. I looked into His eyes. I saw all loneliness, all sorrow, all pain. All sin. And tears flowed down His face like a river, an oasis. I didn't understand how He could understand, how He could have experienced anything that I'd been through, yet His eyes showed that He had been through all of the anguish and suffering that a dying world has to offer. Though He didn't deserve it, He understood. He felt the sin penetrate into His beaten back. He tasted the pain of loneliness as friends betrayed Him with a kiss. And He experienced death so that I could have life. Suddenly everything made sense to me. All my years of suffering grew dim in the light of His face. Stone-cold, tired eyes turned to tears of new life and peace. The scars that I had carried with me for so long dissolved at the sight of His body, broken for me. I soared with the rising dawn. I let Him take my hand, and He's never let me go.