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The Painter’s Canvass

Nov. 5, 2011

Standing in the golden light,

The Painter, brush in hand;

The canvass sits, incomplete,

Awaits His soft command.

The bristles brush back and forth;

Yellow, green, and blue,

Black and white, purple, pink,

But wait, here’s something new.

His brush He plunges in the red

And draws it, poised to strike…

Stop! That corner’s set, it’s dry;

What’s there not to like?

With shaking head He sweeps across,

“No, not done quite yet.”

The black on white, now in part

Veiled by paint still wet.

Who am I to question

The One who’s painting me?

But why, oh why, must He hide

The art we once could see?

I know I’m not the Painter,

I cannot see it all,

The Master Artist knows what’s best

And He will make that call.

Sometimes I feel the need to paint

The picture of my life:

“Look here, this fine design I’ve drawn,

Now paint it green and white.”

Patiently, with gaze intent

The Painter carries on,

Undaunted by what seems to me

A masterpiece gone wrong.

Stepping back, He eyes His work;

A smile plays on His lips.

He chooses now the finest brush

For such a time as this.

He dips it gently in the gold

And with each careful stroke,

Unveils the beauty in His mind;

This never was a joke.

Who am I to question

The One who’s painting me?

Why ever did I doubt His skill,

His great ability?

Because I’m not the Painter

I cannot see how much

The artistry will be revealed

In His final touch.

Standing in the golden light,

The Painter, brush in hand;

The canvass sits, incomplete

Awaits His soft command.