Poetry

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The craftsman carefully looks through the stack.
Examining each piece, front and back.

Appearance and size is not of great concern
As each piece, he gives a turn.

It matters not that it is knotted and rough.
For his purpose, straight and true is enough.

On the workbench, he begins to cut the excess.
Can he create something from this mess?

Then it begins to take shape in the craftsman’s hands
Becoming smooth as he sands.

Knocking off the rough edges with each caress.
Each flaw he will gently address.

And when completed, it will be coated and sealed.
Protecting from being spoiled and peeled.

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He picked me from the stack.
Not for what I had but for what I lacked.

I was not great in looks or size.
But I was beauty in his eyes.

It mattered not that my heart was cold & hard.
Or that my past was ugly and marred.

On the workbench, He begins to cut the excess.
Can He create something from this mess?

He cuts away bitterness and pride
And all the other faults I tried to hide.

Gently shaping me with each stroke.
Mending a heart that is broke.

Covering me with his love and grace
Protecting me until at last we embrace.

Copyright 2003

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