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| Source: flickr.com |
The chisel at the end of the mallet,
Cutting off, chipping away, as the mallet pounds down, then is raised up
High again in the hands of our loving Father.
Is this love?
These relentless blows, these flying chips of hard and stony useless stuff, that mars the beauty held within?
Is this love?
As we gasp for breath between the blows,
Watching as He carves out, reshapes, applies the sharp-edged chisel with surgical precision.
Is this really love?
My mind wants to go to billowy, cushion-soft clouds of white, puffing across a sun-streaked sky;
Of running, unencumbered, in a field of green, flowers of every hue with heads held high to greet me.
But You see beauty in the mess--
You can picture the perfect curvature of the form held within its prison,
And you work to free it and unleash it, for Your glory, and our good.
Your idea of beauty is of a different sort--
It goes beyond the mere appearance of a sunshiny day and verdant meadows.
Your love is of a different nature--
The relentless, passionate pursuit of all that is good, true, right, and just,
Made of sinewy stuff--unbreakable, tenacious, unconditional, perfect.
Will I ever understand?
Must I stand by and watch?
Can I not hide behind my ignorance?
Must I see this painful process?
Yes, for it will make me appreciate the splendor of the final thing of beauty You are faithful to bring forth.
Yes, for it will help me to know that our hope is in You, alone.
For only You possess the strength, wisdom, and perfect love that is willing to wield these weighty tools and use them with such care.
We trust in You, Divine Carpenter.
May You have mercy with Your saints!
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