Poetry

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She turns away,
from the canvas waiting,
anticipating.
Blemished by the hand,
of a novice …
her hand.
A distorted picture,
of what should have been.
A distorted picture,
of what will never be.
Here now,
in this silvery pool,
of reflected shame,
where lies tarnish hope.

Ugly, ravaging … lies.


One stroke of Crimson stain,
One stroke of Love so white,
The pain of blackest Death,
The pain of deepest Night.

He anoints with Holy Oil,
He anoints with Holy Light,
The touch of the Master,
The touch of Death and Life.

Pure, Redeeming … Life.


She reaches out,
to the canvas waiting,
anticipating.
Transformed by the hand
of the Master …
His hand.
A masterpiece perfected,
of what has always been.
A masterpiece perfected,
of what will always be.
Here now,
in this silvery pool,
of reflected Grace,
where Truth reveals Hope.

Beautiful, Healing … Truth.







Pat Guy
[email protected]
©2007

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