Bottle Of Brokenness Poem by April Humason

In the days of old, they poured wine into skins,
not glass — not shiny — but fragile and worn.
Old vessels cracked under the weight of new wine,
because what was broken could not hold what was holy.

I feel like one of those vessels,
stretched thin by sorrow,
worn by battles I never asked for,
carrying cracks where joy used to live.

I tried to fill myself with things of this world,
thinking they could numb the hurt,
thinking I could silence the ache,
but nothing born of earth could touch a wound made in the soul.

Then Jesus came.

Not with condemnation.
Not with stones.
But with oil.
With mercy.
With hands that heal what no one sees.

He did not throw me away for being cracked.
He did not discard me for being empty.
He said,
"Come to Me, you who are weary."

And He poured.

Not wine that burns the throat,
but Living Water that heals the heart.
Not something to escape life,
but something that restores it.

I am still a vessel —
but now I am held by grace.
Cracks and all.

And where I was once broken,
He is pouring in new life.