| The Master Draws |
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There was a rich brown piece of wood Forming shape upon a lathe. It turned, so very fast; A pencil, being shaved. Just an ordinary pencil ... With lead down through the heart; But, with a job to do - Right from the very start. All lined up, then, inside the box, With every other shade To be a special source of joy; The reason you were made ... To fulfil this certain task, In the Designer's Hand, Creating exquisite beauty That will spread across the land. Should you stay inside that box, In hopes of staying bright and new, You'll be forgotten, hard, and cold; The Artist pass right over you. All that He planned to draw, No one will ever see. For, only the Master's art Has lasting guarantee. For, if a wild one grabs you And draws an awful mess, Your mark will still be left; Black blobs that aren't the best. But, if the Master has you back, He can erase and then restore. With love, He'll hold you in His Hand. He's able to re-draw. At times, your heart will lose it's glow, When your cutting edge is blunt. But, sharpened you will be. The Master's skill will never flunk. The blade will bring you pain, As more of you is lost. But, scraping off the old dead wood Is only gain, no loss. He cuts to bare His inner life. Then, His heart of joy is shown, When in the Artist's Hand, His loveliness is known. All that's visible of you must die, As you give yourself away. The beautiful picture, the Master draws, Will forever stay. A shiny lead pencil Is such a special thing. It makes no fuss at all. Happily surrendering itself, It flourishes by growing small. |
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