THE ARTIST

There's a time in early evening,
Before the light is wholly done,
When the Artist spreads His canvas,
And makes a pallet of the sun.

He dips His brush into the firey ball,
And finds oranges and golds,
Then splashes them across the sky
In strokes, unrestrained and bold.

Underneath the setting sun
Is where the deeper purples lie,
He tempers them with snow white clouds,.
'Til lavender is in the sky.

He uses bluish, reddish, pinkish hues,
Along with happy yellow streaks,
Then adds muted shades of gray,
And violet daubs in spiral peaks.

In whimsy, He may paint a face,
Perhaps a tiny animal,
Or a figure of a blessed saint,
Or something else phenomenal.

Pastel colors for the day,
Richer, deeper tones for night,
Either way - great displays,
Made greater by His Holy Light.

Every picture's beautiful,
No two are quite the same,
The Master Artist paints them all,
Too grand for simple frames.

Else, we would place His paintings,
Over all the household hearths,
Though, it really is much nicer,
Just to place them in our hearts.