A Purple Robe

So this particular poem was one of the first I ever wrote, and one of the ones that I am still most proud of. I am grateful to God for giving it to me and I hope that you enjoy it. (A little note I do have some short stories, but not that many, at least not that many that are not Christmas, so I am trying to place those in sparingly.) Enjoy...

I hold the shredded pieces of my Purple Robe in hand. Frustrated, I try to put it together, to mend its tattered soul. It tries to hold me, but I will not, cannot let it. I have torn the blood stained fabric with my own desires. How warm and comforting to feel its touch enveloping my soul. I trust this Purple Robe is dead. Its blood has spilled to the ground. The blood of my wickedness. I reach for a taste, but am ashamed and cover myself with ashes. Three days have passed and my confusion maddens me. My Purple Robe lies in a shimmering pool of blood and thorns. IT IS NEW. I am new in it. It holds me in its flesh; I am a part of it. I try to pull it off, it will not let me, it loves me too much. I am a retch, but it does not care. How did I ever come across such a precious gift? Hold me great and Purple Robe for I am unclean and in need of your Grace.