Poetry

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Lord . . .

We are but a mere stroke
on the overall canvas,
that You have lovingly
prepared, primed, and
gloriously painted.

A meager speck of dust.
One that can enjoy its beauty,
or loathe its splendor by,
choosing instead to create
a work of art of our own doing.

The portrait You have created,
is beyond our intelligence.
However,
we foolishly try to distort the
reflection of the true and orginal Painter.

For life is but a smear.
As unclear as a sunrise,
enclosed by the fog and mist
of a winters morn.
Blurring the lens of our soul.

We live a life of defeat,
smudged by our attempts to
smooth out the rough edges.
Never wanting, but always needing,
the stroke of the Masters hand.

For skilled, and able are You,
to paint a portrait of a life,
that has such beauty – but the blemish of sin,
keeps us from the power of its wonder,
and the desire to portray the artist’s work.

For we are all but lost,
heedless to the Painter’s brush,
neglectful of the Painter’s touch,
unmindful of the Masterpiece,
He has created in each of us.


© copyright 2009

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