The Master and the Sculptor

11/28/24

The Master’s Hands

In a quiet workshop, the Master sat,

His hands at work, His heart attached.

Each stroke, each carve, a tender care,

A masterpiece born from love laid bare.

With tools of grace, He shaped our frame,

Each curve, each line, He called by name.

The days, the hours, the years to be,

He wove into us so carefully.

He planned our laughter, our tears, our song,

Our dreams, our hopes, where we’d belong.

Each feature formed with love so deep,

Each life a promise He vowed to keep.

But more than form, His heart’s desire,

To fill us with His living fire.

Like breath to wood, like spark to flame,

To call us to life, to know His name.

For we are more than art on display,

We are His children, made of clay.

He longs for love, a bond so real,

Not puppets bound by string or wheel.

So here He waits, His hands outstretched,

His spirit near, His love confessed.

The Maker calls, “Come, rise, awake!

Receive My breath; your life remake.”

Like Pinocchio, we are more than dust,

In the Master’s hands, we place our trust.

Alive in Him, we stand and sing,

Masterpiece children of our King.

The Sculptor’s Dream

With patient hands, the Sculptor toiled,

Each moment cherished, His vision unspoiled.

The chisel struck, the wood gave way,

And life began to take its shape that day.

He saw in the grain a story untold,

A heart to love, a soul to hold.

Every feature, each line precise,

Fashioned with care, no thought of price.

The curve of a hand, the tilt of a chin,

The depths of a soul to dwell within.

Not just a figure, a lifeless frame,

But one to answer when He called their name.

And oh, His longing, His deepest plea,

To breathe in us eternity.

To take the still and make it move,

His Lordship within, a bond of love

But love requires a choice, a voice,

To freely respond, to willingly rejoice.

No strings to pull, no forceful bind,

But hearts awakened, souls aligned.

“Come alive,” He whispers, “feel My breath,

Awake to love that conquers death.

You’re more than a work of my hands alone;

You’re my child, my heart, my very own.”

The Sculptor dreams, His masterpiece waits,

To step from stillness into grace.

Alive in Him, we find our part,

His perfect craft, His beating heart.

—ST

•  The Potter’s Rebellious Clay