The Sisters Who Never Leave

Hope walks first, Grace holds steady, and Mercy waits for the last to believe.

They walk together.
Three sisters woven from the breath of God,
moving through time like the hush before dawn.
Each with her own way,
her own sound,
her own scent.

Hope goes first.

She walks barefoot through the ash,
trailing light behind her like a wedding veil,
undeterred by ruin or silence.
They say her name quiet, like a vow.
Hope.

She doesn’t flinch when the wind speaks grief,
doesn’t hide her eyes from broken glass or famine.
She kneels beside what’s dying,
fingers tracing the edge of despair
like a mother touching her child’s fevered brow,
not with panic,
but with a kind of knowing
that the story isn’t over yet.

Hope smells like rain before it falls,
like warm bread in houses left standing
after the fire.
She has the patience of roots,
deep under winter soil,
whispering to the trees above,
“Wait. Wait. The green is coming.”

She’s not naïve.
She has kissed the lips of betrayal,
carried the weight of unanswered prayers.
But still, she dances.
Hair wild.
Eyes bright as morning stars.
Not because she’s untouched by sorrow
but because she’s already seen the ending.
And it’s good.

Hope wears no armor.
She walks straight into battle
with only a song on her tongue.
But kings have followed her.
Prophets have clung to her robe.
And the grave?
It once tried to hold her.
But she slipped out laughing,
carrying the keys in her hand.

Grace follows close behind her,
but she moves quieter, like water,
like lullabies whispered to the bruised.
She doesn’t need to be noticed
to change everything.

Where Hope steps into fire with eyes alight,
Grace gathers the ashes.
She cups them in her hands
and breathes over them
until something soft and living stirs again.
Not because it was earned,
but because that’s what she does.

She touches wounds and they forget how to ache.
Not all at once,
but enough for you to breathe again
without tasting iron in your chest.
She speaks in the mother tongue of heaven,
not loud,
but steady,
like waves washing shame
off feet too tired to run.

She doesn’t ask if you deserve her.
She already knows the answer.
But she shows up anyway.
Smiling.
Carrying oil and wine.
Cleaning the blood from your face
before you even understand
you’ve been forgiven.

Grace isn’t soft because she’s weak.
She’s soft because she’s fearless.
Because she’s already seen
the worst of you
and decided
you’re still worth loving.

She’ll sit beside your ruin
until it learns to trust the light again.
And when you finally stand,
still trembling from the mercy,
she won’t say a word.
Just take your hand
and walk with you
into the morning.

Mercy comes last,
not because she is least,
but because she waits.

She’s the one who lingers
at the edge of the camp
for the outcast
who’s sure no one’s coming back for them.

Where Hope blazes forward
and Grace covers every wound,
Mercy stays behind
with those who can't move yet.

She finds the ones who’ve spat on heaven,
thrown stones at love,
and curled up in the dark,
convinced they belong there.
And she kneels,
her robe gathering the dust of their shame,
and speaks their name
like it’s never been used in anger.

Mercy doesn’t flinch when you confess
the thing you’ve never told a soul.
She just nods.
Brushes the hair from your eyes.
And makes a place for you to rest.

She’s not afraid of the stench of failure.
She’s kissed the forehead of murderers,
wept with betrayers,
touched the hands of thieves
and called them “brother.”
She doesn’t demand repayment.
She doesn’t weigh your crimes.
She simply removes the chains
and tells you,
“You are still wanted.”

And when you finally look up,
torn,
not sure if you can believe her,
Mercy just smiles,
a smile like the sky after a storm,
and points behind you.

There stand Grace and Hope,
arms wide,
laughing with joy
because you came home.