The Painter and the Canvas

“Just paint it any way you choose,”

the well-intentioned voices say.

“Just make it beautiful today;

This space is meant for you to use.”


But on this canvas, I’m so small,

and the brush is awkward in my hand.

How will my work turn out as planned

when I can’t even see it all?


We paint a little day by day

to work our way across the white.

If we paint only by our sight,

how will it look from far away?


No one understands the strokes I use.

My shapes look strange as does each line,

but it is not my own design

for I have let the Artist choose.


“Those boring colors,” say the wise.

“We cannot see a picture there.”

Their images are sharp and fair—

They paint in scenes for little eyes.


When I see their clear and vibrant prints

compared to my dark blobs of paint,

my pondering heart begins to faint.

What if my picture won’t make sense?



It’s hard to wait to see the end.

I take the paintbrush from His hands,

and paint myself across His plans—

a mess of colors hard to blend.


Restore me to the Artist’s plan.

The little strokes each day, each night

will one day yield a glorious sight—

He paints far better than I can.


This art may never draw the gaze

of earth-bound hearts with little eyes,

but He who paints the sunset skies

is He who paints the canvas of my days.


































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