The Master's Piece
The paper resides blank and empty.
The pen upon the top-most sheet lays dormant.
Instruments of art, forgotten by the Author,
Await the touch of a skilled hand.
The Master sits before the tools of his great work,
Gently retrieving the fallen quill.
The page soon fills with the composer's diction
His words bringing peace to those who read.
The ink staining the fibrous sheet;
In permanent proof of the Author's presence.
The exuding comfort that permeates each syllable,
Provides a warmth no flame can match.
His feathered stylus He draws across each page;
Carefully considering how best to fill the spaces.
Each word; a gift, given to others.
Yet, as gifts they are, still specially chosen
Is each word for each page to be filled.
A library by the Master's hand.
Books previously written, on each shelf preside.
In loving memory does their Author keep them.
Each tenderly penned as the Composer saw fit;
As patience saw their numbers grow.
Though varied was their length and diverse their texts,
All could be deemed a Master's Piece.
As each work is written and completed,
Another is started anew.
The Author's steady hand renews the ink;
And not a drop is wasted.
For precious is the work composed by the Author;
And Everlasting is the great reward.
Hebrews 12: 2a - Looking unto Jesus the author and finisher of our faith...