Poetry

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The carver could pass, with barely a glance
his countenance, not too outstanding
He might have been old, rather meek and not bold
but the look in his eyes was commanding.

His hands, rough and weathered
from the wood he had gathered
each piece he picked up held within it
A beauty unseen which his old hands would glean
for his heart knew the worth that was in it

Sometimes he would see a knot from the tree
which threatened to mar its perfection
But with his skilled eye he'd understand why
and make it the point of attention.

The knot would become an integral part
of a piece of beauty and grace
It gave the piece character it couldn't have had
like the lines on the old carver's face.

His face showed the years of tender concern
for each piece of art he debated
He'd looked at a tree and instantly see
the wonders that God had created.

His hands sometimes bled from the tools he used
but he never once counted the cost
Each piece that he gathered he put safely away
taking care that nothing was lost.

The art he created he never charged for
he'd lovingly give it away,
For given in love, the more it was shared
the greater his love grew each day.

No one could look at a piece of his art
without feeling a glow from within,
The hurts that tore at each aching heart
would gently and surely grow thin.

The love from each piece would so radiate
that none could escape its great power,
As the love of our God will so fill the earth
on that appointed day ... in His hour!

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