A green bottle

Tossed overboard by a careless tipsy sailor.

Cracks against the hull of the boat, so when it meets with the salty sea,

Water fills it quickly.

Down, down, it sinks, and when it hits a rock below, the shattering is complete.

Once a shiny bottle on a shelf. Now a nameless pile of shards lost at sea.

But it gets worse.

The tide draws the sand, and with it the broken glass. 

The remnants no longer look like a bottle. Now sharp edges cut through sand.

Waves toss them cruelly.

Here, there, the glass helplessly bullied by the strength of the water. The torture is effective.

Once a pile of shards, now separate chunks of useless scraps tossed onto the beach.

And there it lies.

A single jagged piece of glass. But it’s a danger to the carefree child.

A protective father plucks it from the sand and flings it back toward the abyss.

The sea swallows reluctantly.

Swirling, swirling, until it rests on the sandy floor of the deep. The memory is gone.

Once at peace on the shore, now condemned to sea rubbish. For years.

And years and years.

The sand rubs it sore.

And the waves toss it relentlessly.

And the salty water scratches at its surface.

The shine is gone. The sharp is dull. 

And no one cares.

Then one day.

The tide shifts just enough to dislodge the fragment.

The undercurrent ushers shells and sand and anything else toward land.

A wave carries it suddenly.

Rolling, rolling, up a sandy beach until it rests and the water ebbs away. Abandoned.

Once beaten by the whims of strong tides and rough sands, now calm, but alone.

And the sun.

The sun bakes the sand, the shells, the beaten fragment that lies between them.

It doesn’t fit. It’s not golden like the sand. Nor is it intricate like the shells.

It lies hopelessly.

Slowly, slowly, the wind blows across the beach.

Once in a prison of water, now waiting for entombment in sand. Forever.

Until a hand from above.

Reaches down carefully and lifts the glass thoughtfully.

“It’s perfect. Like an emerald.” And fingers run gracefully over the smooth edges.

The hand holds it gently.

Broken, beaten, what seemed to be damaged: transformed instead.

And now, because of it, the prize for a collector, who sees beauty and worth.

So years and years.

The sand rubbed it sore.

And the waves tossed it relentlessly.

And the harm done to the bottle, left unrecognizable,

Made it smooth. Made it a treasure.

Made it wanted.

What do you think?

Which of the following Bible verses would you choose for this poem? Why?

“Stretch out your hand from on high; rescue me and deliver me from the many waters…” Psalm 144:7

“For the moment all discipline seems painful rather than pleasant, but later it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it.” Hebrews 12:11

“And I am sure of this, that he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ.” Philippians 1:6

Did you think of a different verse that might seem more fitting?