Lines of Life


He stares at the blank canvas, and slowly makes a line.
A line of life, and a mark of borrowed time.
Slowly and perfectly the canvas He paints is mine.


Slowly the shapes take place
The form of me, before me is my face.
And yet, I found myself dissatisfied
In my own selfishness I cried.
It was not what I wanted it to be And yet I couldn't see
The portrait was not yet done
It really was not of me.


I quickly took the paintbrush from Him
He sadly let it go, and took a step back.
He watched sadly as the colors would dim.
The lines began fade and the canvas would crack.
As I saw my mistakes for the Master I cried


His hand covered mine and gently he began to guide
As He corrected my mistakes he added new lines
Lines of Life, and borrowed time.
The canvas He paints, is Mine.

 Paula Chapman

Feb. 6, 2008

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