Old canvases,
Tucked away and hidden
In dry and darkened places,
Gathering dust and wasted;
One of these so easily
Could be
Me.
I’ve thrown away some
That looked better
Than I did then,
(So torn and stained and scarred).
But, the Artist refused
To discard
Me.
He took me out of hiding,
And went to work restoring.
He thoroughly dusted and cleaned me up,
Mended all the tears,
Sanded all the scars,
Until His good design
Showed through,
And the colors glowed
Clear and
True.
But...
He didn’t stop there.
No, with great care,
He took His brush in Hand,
And dipped it into a
Pallette filled With
Grace and
Favor.
He painted some,
Then painted more,
Until I was, not merely restored,
But made
Anew...
Washed in
Heavenly hues,
And now of great use
Adorning His
House.
He isn’t finished though.
No.
He goes on painting,
Never ceasing until the final
Showing,
Because,
Though it’s the Artist Who paints,
It’s the canvas that’s
Seen.
Old canvas...
In the Hands of the Master
Becomes
A Masterpiece.
