With each step, she bled,
just as she had for twelve long years.
Her body tired, her heart weary,
weary of sickness,
weary of living as a ghost,
within her own life.
Weary of being called unclean.
Jostled by the crowd,
her gaze stayed fixed on His hem.
Closer, closer, He was just within reach.
Her heart pounding, her mouth dry.
At last, her fingers graced the fabric,
they rubbed along each stitch,
all her hope was held in this one moment,
this one touch.
He turned to her, His eyes smiling—
He called her daughter.
He called her faith filled.
He called her well.