The Canvas waits — an open sky,
A trembling Hand begins to paint,
Colors wrestle — A stormy Tide,
Every brushstroke sings a hymn while each uncertainty becomes a night.
The brushes falter, Vision fades,
A dimming Star — yet Hope abides,
In darkened Hall — a whisper sparks,
The Unknown bends, and yields its Light.
The Song half-born — the Breath withheld,
Creation’s pangs, a Glorious ache,
The World may scoff, but cannot steal,
The Broken Bread of earnest Grace.
Triumphs whisper, not trumpet-loud,
Quiet Rings of steadfast Joy,
Though Hands bear scars, they softly rise,
For Life itself — the Artist’s prize.