A quiet procession of fabric, each stripe its own color like a line from the psalm laid down one at a time — waters that still, pastures that lie green, a valley's shadow, a table prepared. A gold cross rises at the center, stitched in an old, ornate hand, like something carved into a chapel door. A thread of beaded vine work winds along the bottom, steady and unhurried, the way the psalm itself moves — goodness and mercy, following. Solemn, comforting, built to be carried like a small kept promise.
A quiet procession of fabric, each stripe its own color like a line from the psalm laid down one at a time — waters that still, pastures that lie green, a valley's shadow, a table prepared. A gold cross rises at the center, stitched in an old, ornate hand, like something carved into a chapel door. A thread of beaded vine work winds along the bottom, steady and unhurried, the way the psalm itself moves — goodness and mercy, following. Solemn, comforting, built to be carried like a small kept promise.
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