The Painter
Upon the canvas blank and white,
Lay my life, as clear as light.
For many a days, thus it lay.
Drenched with water, from colour, away.
So dull the scene, so hopeless the art
So void of beauty, so rid of heart.
Yet thus it lay, for all to see,
Among the painter's most treasured sea.
None could understand the canvas' worth,
None could picture it as beauty's birth.
Then one day, when the canvas was pale and dry,
The artist drew mighty strokes, low and high.
He worked at it both day and night,
He captured colours rare and bright.
And then He smiled at the finished piece,
At beauty which his paintbrush released.
The canvas no longer dull and boring,
But the very story of beauty evolving.
Thus my life, no longer pale or white,
But stroked artistically with beauty bright.
My Painter's hand, empowered by skill,
He turneth water into wine, by His will.
