Perhaps I’m not the artist but the art,
The one you shape and mould and colour in,
Carve and smooth out, retouch relentlessly,
Infinite patience whittling me within.
Perhaps I’m not the singer but the song,
The music that Your mercy loves to play,
The theme resolving sorrow into hope,
Anguish to wonder, darkness to new day.
Perhaps I’m not the dancer but the dance,
Your choreography positions me
Lifted to heights I never thought to reach
And plunged with grace to rise exultantly.
Perhaps I’m not the writer but the tale
You tell again, the story old and new,
The wonder that we weep for every time,The marvel that is gloriously true.