the beginning

for some reason it seemed appropriate to me to post some of my old poetry.  i haven't looked at most of it in years so this ought to be interesting.  i began writing as a teenager and one of the first poems i wrote was called, "the artist."  it's about God being the Creator.  its funny because i think a lot of my writing parallels my growth as a Christ-follower.  this one was written while i was a spiritual infant.  funny, cuz i think one of the first things we must accept in knowing God is knowing Him as Creator.  that's why the Bible starts "in the beginning," with creation.  "For since the creation of the world God's invisible qualities - his eternal power and divine nature - have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that men are without excuse."  (Romans 1:20)  accurate science is proof of a Creator God.  and evidenced by that creation, the Creator is infinitely wiser than science is ever capable of proving Him to be. 

c.s. lewis has a brilliant symbolic account of creation in chapter 9 of his book, "the magician's nephew," which is part of his chronicles of narnia series.  it brought me to tears.  for beauty and excellence, please reference that, or Psalm 8 or Genesis 1.  for fun you can read this one.

The Artist

The brush his hand, the pallet his heart

The artist forever draws

His strokes perfecting every part

In his painting no hidden flaws

He paints the sun's set and its rise

The leaves in autumn's fall

The grass below; above the skies

The clouds, he paints them all

The sandy pebbles on glistening shore

Dashes of sunshine on the waves

The white sand under blue water, the shallow floor

The dark rocks within the caves

The canyons splashed with his delicate patterns

The rivers raging and free

The moonlight lit by his candle lanterns

With the falling stars he paints harmony

The mountains are peaked with snowy white

His brush flows for the shadows with gray

Majestic trees, vast lakes will seize the sight

While in valleys shades of green softly lay

He paints the eagle with wings soaring high

Picks colors for the flowers below

Sketching animals of the fields, birds of the sky

In everything his workmanship shows

The rainbow of colors from which he chooses

The reds, the yellows, the blues

Through time not one speck of its beauty loses

But gains power and love in all hues

But the most precious of his many works

The one by which man was blessed

Is the one he painted the day he hurt

So that any soul could live in rest

But why oh Lord on that day

Was red the color you chose?

And why for the color of blood did you pay

When you could’ve painted a lush red rose?

He poured the red over the black

Covering guilt sin and shame

My heart his love nevermore to lack

For in white he colored my name

December 5, 1995