The Artist of Life

Imagine an artist whose art comes to life…

His paintings leap from their canvasses,

            his sculptures break free and move,

His storied characters rise from their pages,

            his poetry blossoms and breathes.

Whatever he creates takes shape,

            their lungs filling up with air.

Whatever he envisions comes to be,

            for life flows from his giving hands.

Now, imagine his creations in the world

            where they live and they interact.

Imagine they’re given free will,

            granted freedom upon the earth.

Their environment is sublime,

            their surroundings are so pristine.

They commune together here, at peace

            with each other and their creator.

Next, imagine that they rebel,

            they reject their giver of life.

Chaos, anguish, and ire ensue,

            pain and hate take root.

What once was a place of harmony

            has been plagued and riddled by evil.

The creations are razing their canvas to the ground,

            their creator just watches them go…

There are wells of tears in his eyes

            and his heart is beyond broken.

His paintings have discolored,

            his sculptures have all contorted.

His characters have been manipulated,

            his poetry has turned against him.

All that he’s created has changed,

            warped by the evil in their hearts.

All that he had dreamed and envisioned

            has been lost, ruined, undone.

He gave of himself in their creation,

            but his love was not returned to him.

Now, imagine that we are his paintings,

            know that we are his sculptures.

Understand that we are his characters,

            believe that we are his poetry.

His life still flows through our veins,

            his breath still breathes in our lungs.

His love still beats in our hearts,

            and his touch is still within reach.

His longing stands before us,

            his arms are open wide.

His embrace will reshape and remold us

            into what he dreamed we would be.

Now, imagine he’s painting our path,

            know that he’s sculpting our souls.

Understand he’s the author of our lives,

            and believe our poetry is still being penned…

The Wide Sea

Sometimes the world feels so big, and I feel quite small.
There are things to do that I haven’t yet figured out how.
There are places to go that I’m unsure where to look.
There are people to meet that I’m unfamiliar with.
There are mountains to climb, yet I am still unequipped.
There are oceans to cross, yet I haven’t the stamina to swim.
I peer out the window and see the world, tall and ominous.
The people around me move so quickly that I can’t react.
There are days that pass by and I feel all too unaccomplished.
There are nights that worry prevents me from sleeping.
It’s difficult to admit when I feel overwhelmed.
It’s often embarrassing to ask another for help.
I’m no longer a boy, but am I truly a man?
I’m no longer a student, but there’s much more to learn.
The ambient noises are sometimes overbearing.
The constant advice is sometimes taken as criticism.
In this world so large, I’m truly very small.
I am a leaf on the wind, a single drop in the wide sea.
And so I close my eyes to escape the weight.
I close my eyes to dream of a place otherworldly.
I dream of feeling wanted, needed, loved.
It’s a distant and lofty dream, dreamt with regularity.
I close my eyes tightly and I drift off to sleep.
And when I awaken, I know what awaits me in spirit.
When I arise, I know that I’ll be embraced.
For I have been created and I am dearly loved.
I am wanted for a purpose, needed for many things.
In my life I will take countless small steps.
But when added up, I will have walked a great distance.
And so, I close my eyes tonight, ready for sleep.
I will once again think these very thoughts.
Once again I will dream this very dream.
And when I stir in the morning, I will once again rise.
Though small I will stand, and I will take many small steps.
I will go a great distance, until I become weary once more.
There I will lie down to sleep, to dream, and again to rise.

Freed

Stained by sin are the tips of my fingers

Stalked by death the steps that I take

Proud is the heart that beats in my chest

Sin is what’s left in my wake

.

Broken are the bridges that daily I build

Flawed are the friendships I keep

There are no ways to undo what I’ve done

The debt I’ve incurred is too steep

.

Someone must cover the cost of my sin

Someone must pay for my life

Nothing I do or say will suffice

I need the one they call Christ

.

Jesus Christ is the very Son of God

And He’s willfully died in my place

He’s gone as the lamb is led to the slaughter

He’s bestowed on all sinners His grace

.

Perfect was the life that Jesus had lived

Undeserving was the death that He died

But unworthy a foe the grave did prove

For Jesus has risen, He’s alive!

.

Not even the clutches of death could hold Him

There is no power below or above

Christ will triumph again and again

There is no match for His love

.

What we deserve is a sinner’s death

But Christ died for you and for me

Death could not hold Him, nor will it ever

Thus by Christ we’re alive, we’re free