Painter

The painter paints with passion
Brushing furiously, stroking away…
In a determinedly focused fashion
That will not waver or sway.
His marred hands move with a vision;
An image inside His head
Calculated with perfect precision
That moves his brush ahead.
Slowly, slowly, but oh so surely
The canvas fill up with paint
It won’t be late, nor will it be early
But on time and untouched by complaint.
He who began a this enchanting endeavor
Will surely finish it.
And its greatness and glory will hang forever
Where no one can diminish it.

Full Circle

The funny thing about seasons
Is that they’re cyclical;
They come, they go, and they come back…
And that’s no conjecture, that’s a fact.
I’m telling you, it’s true:
The Good Book tells us there’s nothing new
And that there’s a time for everything under the sun:
A time to walk, a time to run,
A time to keep it together, a time come undone,
A time to embrace, a time to refrain,
A time for pleasure, a time for pain.
Whatever’s begun has already been done
And whatever’s done will begin again.
Just when you thought the lesson was learned,
And the bridges were burned,
Or your blessing was earned…
You discover that the tides hadn’t really turned at all.
At least not for very long.