Along a clouded rocky shore, in the sand or floating by…
see the driftwood sitting there, one face to water and one to sky.
It’s edges smooth and soft to touch yet driftwood there has seen so much.
Tossed about upon the waves, or thrown on rocks and into caves.
Each new rock will leave a brand, a scar or mark from touching land,
It reaches out from on the sea, a return to land not meant to be.
The waters come to pull it back, to smooth the marks n hide the cracks.
The waters touch is cold it’s true, but hides the scars from showing through.
Along the shore an artist walks, scanning sands and searching rocks.
He spots the driftwood in the sand, its latest try to stay on land.
The artist He can see much more, what’s in that stick upon the shore.
He sees the possibilities, of what the stick can really be.
The artist see’s it’s not just wood, but has the spirit of something good.
He does not see the cracks and chips, the breaks and tears or broken tips.
He sees the beauty in the wood, and knows inside is something good.
I was the drifwood lying there. If waves should come I did not care.
It’s what I thought I was meant to be, who could ever care for me?
Yet the artist found me there, broken hurt and in dispare.
He lifed me in gentle hand, and He returned me to the land.
He said, “I see what’s there in you. A light, a soul, a promise too”.
“I will take you home with me, and show what you were ment to be”.
So I left the waters cold, to be with the artist as I was told.
His home was warm and welcomed me, and I was safe from cold and sea.
His gentle touch works with me still, to reveal in me His intended will.
This artist is not a man you see, but One with greatest love for me.
His hand will fix the breaks and tears and take away the rocky scares.
He took me from the stormy sea, where nothing there did care for me.
In His care I am new, and now my light is shining through.
I will find who I was meant to be, no more just driftwood on the sea.
Edited by BuffaloCO (02/09/13 12:11 PM)
Edit Reason: Refined
“We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark. The real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.” - Plato