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GOD: The Artist

By on April 15, 2016

the-artist-drawing-palette-color-paint-easel-brush-creativity-art-good-idea-close-up-blur-bokeh-wallpaper

God is good.
He thrives in details
From the complexion of the eyes
To the last strand of hair,
To the number of stars in the galaxy
to the wee bits of sand.
his spirit is wind,
blows to wherever it wishes: unpredictable, unhinged
He paints the skies with a medley of colors;
shades of orange with a touch of red,
or a sad grey, with flashes of white,
or strokes of turquoise reflected in the deep sea
or a deeper blue in the sky piercing the soul
complete with an infinite horizon

He has breathed in us a need;
to imitate,
to create,
and make all things in his image

but He is the master Wright
and His story is etched in us,
thriving in twists and turns,
humor and gore
victory washed in tears of loss
He has surpassed our imagination
Our thoughts are juvenile to His
Lost in a deep suspense of the ultimate
Playing with the odds of the end
Vacillating between doom and glory,
Apocalypse the ascension to the saints
Yet He has mystified the end and clothed it in death

So in death-
we speculate,
we create imaginations
escape in our own little stories;
stories with happy endings
scorning the immoral thought-
thoughts of evil triumphing over good

we christen them-
those who have had a smoky glimpse of eternity;
seen the ultimate of men:
no matter how shaky the glimpse was,
or the clarity of the visions.
we are afraid to believe that death is the end

So we believe God is real
with a stubbornness of a mule with reels
we believe in His divine love:-
though His love is different.
Adorned in pain and blood,
With a hidden price tag-
a sacrifice of self.
It is love of tears,
of submission and obedience,
trusting in His Divine guidance
receiving chastening with love…
bowing in reverence and halleluiah
But,
Is love endurance?
Is it an inconvenience?
Is it even appropriate?
I mean, can love be wrong?

But we endure the pain of becoming,
Guess like purification of gold by fire

At times, I think of God as an Artist:
the earth-His canvas, paper, or a clean slate
The humans-
Bits of his creation: work of His hands
Playing the roles,
Living lives
Believing in whatever assurance there is
But:
He balances our breathe like a color wheel
With the precision of an artist,
holding his pencils and eraser-
props of life and death.

At times I see Him;
Guiding,
Saving,
Taking,
Healing,
Restoring and destroying,
Balancing His equations, the work of his hands,
At times with the stroke of his breathe;
He erases-
the bad bits,
the odd bits,
the good bits,
A reminder of the ultimate-
Although this is real, death is real
there are no buts or oops,
when He calls the shots
At times I hear him laugh out loud-humored
Other times He turns angry; though for a while
Other times he his quiet:
when we get at the fork of the road
Most of the time He nods, knowing soon
He is putting a full stop, a final sketch
An end to this madness…

Maybe then,
He will fold this canvas in anger;
with sparks of fire in His voice,
as he tosses his creation in the bin,
or in the fire of damnation…

Or maybe,
He will write another script,
Or draw another sequel,
Has he hangs this masterpiece
In the hall of fame.

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