Finish the music you're playing.
I'll never get weary
of hearing the melodies
you and your fingers create.
Finish the canvas you're painting.
fills up with such pride
inside when I see
how much joy you put into your art.
Finish the poem you're writing.
I long for a day when
the grey leaves your mind
and you hit on the perfect rhyme.
Finish the book you started.
the pain you'll go through
to do what you love
and gift sweet conception with birth.
We're all born screaming
While screams echo back
And one day we learn
To hold our screams in check
But the world keeps on screaming
Its groans ignore our reluctance
Tearing through our dreams
Persistently confronting us
The only source of peace for us
Are Jesus' gentle whispers
They serve as a quiet respite
For those who are able to listen
And soon the whispers clarify
The groans from the world around
These aren't cries of anger
But pleas to be unbound
Creation itself cries out
For rescue by its maker
To be allowed to at last fulfil
The purpose it was made for
And so our eyes are opened
To the reason for our screams
We cry with all creation
For a full and final release
And Jesus hears our cries
He's not deaf to our prayers
He'll come again in his glory
With earthshaking fanfares
Our cries will turn to song
Secure in a brand new earth
Creator and creation in harmony
Echoing glad cries of new birth
So a new born baby's screams
Shouldn't come as any surprise
They are simply giving echo
To creation's longing sighs.
How can I dare to lift my pen and try to capture
what Your own hand has created?
You, who danced on the waters
when there was naught
Yet You lacked nothing
in Your perfection.
How can my brush hope to portray
that which Your own hand has designed?
You, who formed the heavens and the earth
Who pushed waters from waters,
mountains from valleys,
light from darkness,
and said “It is good.”
How can my voice hope to sing
of that which You spoke into existence?
You, who breathed life into the stars,
the earth and sky alike
Whose laughter bellowed through the cosmos
and delighted in the simplest wonders,
the most intricate marvels,
joyous all the while.
The only portrait I can cultivate
while doing Your creation justice
I, whom Your own hand has crafted,
whom You Yourself breathed life into
every fiber of existence I call my own
I, who bear Your image
I am all I can offer
for it is what You have given me.
And You say “It is very good,”
for this is all You desire.
Go away and, come back, when it's done
an artist, and their work, focused, on an unseen sun
Burning the purpose, inside their head
on canvas, glass, or clay, words on page, now said
Please understand, as not wanting anyone to know
of looking like a fool, at an unassembled show
It's art at it's finest, the puzzle, how it's made
the artist's fears and doubts, placed upon, display
Does the universe play favorites
I know it is happy to have me
It is happy for my brother
And for its every single creation
But my god, its smile
When it looks at you
Scientists will never truly know
Why the stars burn
Why galaxies form
Why the universe expands
But I do
And it does
And it was never sorry