Wednesday, January 9, 2008

My Father Is a Sculptor

Thanks to the recently launched Poetry Workshop at Grace Presbyterian Church, Houston, for suggesting I post this one.

God is the consummate Artist. His creation inspires the beauty of great visual works; His love sings in our music and poetry; and His story forms the basis of our best literature. The greatest art is that created to the praise of God.

Not that art, like everything else in this fallen world, can't be used for ungodly purposes. There are "artists" whose work takes a direct stand against the Christian God (anyone who follows the entertainment news knows of the recent furor surrounding The Da Vinci Code and The Golden Compass--not to mention the many books, songs, and movies that glorify sexual immorality); but more insidious is the situation where the art itself may be good and wholesome, but where all glory is given to the human creator instead of to the Creator. Even Christian artists have let praise go to their heads and have forgotten that God is the true Source of all beauty--and of their talents.

Of course, you may not be any kind of earthly artist--and even if you are, there are bound to be artistic fields into which your talent does not reach. But in a sense all Christians are God's apprentice artists--by cooperating as He shapes us and by telling others of His love, we help make beautiful things in His world.

My Father is a Sculptor:
The mountains are His blocks;
The canyons are His hewings;
His statues are the rocks.
I may not wield a chisel
To chip a stone away,
But I can help Him sculpt me
And mold my heart each day.

My Father is a Painter
In sunset atmosphere,
In nights all decked with glitter,
In leaves dyed every year.
I may not touch a canvas
With shades to tempt the view,
But I can help Him paint me
In colors pure and true.

My Father is a Singer:
He teaches birds their tunes;
He plays the wind through canyons
And in the grass He croons.
My voice may be near useless
For stirring joy or grief,
But I can speak His message
That sings of sweet relief.

My Father is a Writer:
His works each mortal scans,
Some through His poets and prophets,
Some in wild wonderlands.
My words are ever meager,
But, Father, let them speak
With all Your peace and comfort,
That others find who seek.

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