Brows grim as we set to sacred task
To make of nascent innocence, a sturdy greatness.
Vision tuned to spot the gem buried beneath dirt,
As smiths ready to fashion strength from nothing.
A divine craft with masterpieces eternal,
The very work of heaven…making immortal the mortal.
Every word, every action, breath and glance,
Footfalls in the sands of time, never to be washed away.
As sculptors, we often hack at wood unyielding…
Yet to cease, we dare not! For we are persuaded…
Persuaded by visions of rapture, pictures of grandeur!
Whilst it may be yet hidden, the import of our deeds,
We press on- our hearts beating in tune with God’s drum
Yesterday is gone, today is all we truly have…