Carpenter

The Carpenter lays His hand to the saw
though varmint and insect may gnaw
'gainst his dream made wooden law,
He carries on with His saw.

Buildings are burned at will,
statues topple for ill,
beauty dies, but He creates still,
for none can overcome His will.

For the Creater will make become
what has healed the dumb,
and made feel the numb,
for the created must become.

Waiting at the Gates

I sit here at the gate,
I've been here for some while.
I sit and sing and smile,
And ponder just one fate.

Now, roads have many ends,
Some good or bad or tough.
While one is quite enough,
If one roams not 'round bends.

So sit there at that gate,
And ponder you that flower,
A sign from yonder tower,
Of your quite happy fate.

Flow of Thought

The words that we speak
are the things we create.
I've never said the same thing twice.

What an Image.
To think we are just a reflection,
as He hovers over the waters.

What is perceived has being,
and being never ceases to be.
Erasers are lies:
the words are still there.
Fresh paint never leaves,
just smears.

So while some of us paint slowly,
with bold studied strokes in jewel tones,
and others dips dots,
thousands of pastels on the tips of their brushes,
it all is.
And shall be.

Good God.