A suit divine, the Koran weaves, For gentile hearts, its fit achieves. Bespoke it falls, with seams so true, Each thread aligns with grace anew. Yet some, they eye the Torah's cloth, A dwarf's attire, they grasp with wroth. Too tight, too short, it binds and tears, No tailor's skill can mend their cares. The gentile dons this misfit garb, Its sleeves too long, its cut too sharp. He twists, he tugs, he fumes, he frets, Blames Jewish hands for his regrets. "Oh, why," he cries, "this suit's amiss? Its hem betrays, its cuffs dismiss!" But fault lies not in cloth or Jew— The wearer chose what won’t ring true. A suit bespoke, the Koran waits, Its gentle folds unlock the gates. While Torah's weave, for its own kin, Fits not the frame that wrestles in. So let the heart choose garments wise, That drape the soul in truth’s own guise. For blame will fade when fit is found, And peace shall clothe the world around.