The Divine Artist

Transcendently Satisfied, Self-Fulfilled God,
Dependent On Nothing, Perfection Uncaused,
No Lack In Your Essence Compelled You To Take
Your Paintbrush In Hand And A Masterpiece Make.

The Soul Of The Artist Soars Gloriously Free,
No Shackles Constraining His Will To Decree
Its Chosen Expression, Exquisitely Bright,
Displaying His Character, Skill, And Delight.

Of How Much More Glory God’s Handiwork Sings,
Parading A Story Of Praiseworthy Things,
Of Wisdom, Of Judgment, Of Truth, Grace, And Love,
Of Priceless Redemption And Life Up Above.

You Don’t Need My Heart, Lord; You Don’t Need My Praise.
You Don’t Need My Worship Or Penitent Ways.
You Don’t Need My Service, My Strength, Or My Song.
I’m Just Your Creation; They’re Yours All Along.

But Oh, How I Wonder And Sing And Rejoice,
My Pride Torn Asunder At Your Sovereign Choice
To Paint For Your Pleasure A Person Like Me,
A Part Of Your Picture Forever To Be

More Shayari by Edward A. Morris
04 Sep 2008 No Comment

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