Rock Writers’ Guild

Lord, I am on my knees so often these days,
but not to pray; instead doing my daily
rounds of this temple to you, my house.
Scrubbing floors, wiping a small wet nose,
weeding, tying and re-tying three pairs of shoes.
Each day’s work is nearly lost in the next day!
Morning’s looming over me like an oppressive hand
waiting to bring me down to do it all again.
Sometimes I lift my head, briefly, to see
the progress of the great work all around me,
the kingdom forcefully advancing on the land
wrought out of stone by violent men.
They lay charges in the ground and rend
more work in an hour than I could chisel free
in a multitude of days!  Their ways made straight,
their monuments of accomplishment casting shade
to rest and refresh the pilgrims of centuries.
But, Lord, you’ve given me such small tools
to make my way with!  Sometimes I long
to fling them petulantly down and moan,
“I can’t go on without doing something grand!
Without more than the chipping, repetitive work
you’ve laid to hand!”  I struggle to understand
the necessities of my post and the Plan
you have laid sternly, lovingly, before me-
size not always being indication of importance
I know.  But I wonder if young Michaelangelo
felt this when rendering a knuckle’s intricate lines,
painstakingly obeying a glimpse of inner vision,
endlessly tapping out the details of creation
like a man blind but drawn to a distant land
whose shores most people will never  see,
whose significance none but You could understand?