In our becoming God's diamonds, from the rough stones that we are, some cutting and polishing will be necessary. No "rough diamond" will enjoy the process. First, it's painful, and furthermore, it seems that things get much worse before they get better. (I've found the same scenario as I've developed as a Christian writer.)
I wrote the following poem years ago, after searching for just the right hope chest for our youngest daughter. We stooped to enter a low African doorway and found chaos inside. Curls of wood shavings lay everywhere. Dust drifted in shafts of light coming through the slatted roof. Boards stood like dominoes against one wall of the rude shed. But, in the light falling through the doorway, a carver sat, completely absorbed in his work of making beauty out of plainness, usefulness out of mere slabs of wood.
Hope Chest
Sylvia Stewart
An empty box stands lidless by the door,
with pencil marks in arabesques and swirls
crossing its face--a worthless chest of boards,
passed, unseen, by a group of giggling girls.
The carving master comes. The box he shifts
into a shaft of light. His fingers trace
the pattern on the rough-hewn boards. He lifts
the knife and hammer, starts to carve the face.
With stroke on stroke of pounding wooden maul,
through much endurance, patient days, months long,
the plaited arcs appear as shavings fall
from the shining blade in hands both sure and strong.
The half-carved chest is roughened, gouged and marred.
Busy tools plied make flying chips.
Exuding fragrance comes from chiseled stars
appearing, rough-carved, on the box's lips.
A Maltese cross is set in either end,
sacred emblems carved with border lace.
Future treasure will in this vault defend
their secrets, cherished behind a symboled face.
The work is done. The handsome hope chest stands
in all its wounded, riven splendor dressed.
The carver smiles, content, and dusts his hands--
forgotten chisel, hammer, pain, distress.
May I like this strong box, in tranquilness,
hoarding treasures, secrets, chiseled pain,
put on a shining face the knife's caress
only enhances--let His truth remain.
Oh Lord, forever chiseled may I be,
so long as the carving tool is held by Thee,
and may I hold rich treasures of Your grace,
with only a radiant smile upon my face.
On those worst of painful days , remember that God is making something beautiful out of you.
7 comments:
Wow, Sylvia! I didn't know you were a poet, too! Great poem!
TL
The only one I've ever managed, Tommie. It was an assignment for a creative writing class. Actually, I did write another one in High School and it was published in an anthology of all those who participated in the contest. I had to read it to the class, and was terrified!!!
Now you need to write a verse about the grandchildren that come along and scar the hopechest with carelessness. :) Hmmm... wonder who's kids those would be?
Sylvia, that is beautiful! Could almost work it into a hymn. I loved it.
Lots of Love,
Linda
Lovely! Here from Linda R's blog
Thank you all.
Your poem is exquisite, Sylvia.
Post a Comment