STRIPPED DOWN

Sculptor God,
I’m uncut stone: all rough
edges, broken corners,
grainy surfaces,
grey.
But you, Artist God—
you see the masterpiece
buried in this block,
the gleaming planes
and lines so smooth they’ll make
your fingers ache to touch them.
You catch the eloquence of curves
and whorls and polished joints,
hidden still.

The art I am
you will lay bare.
You strike; chips fly.
The blade of your chisel cuts deep,
and I want to run.
I do not know
the grand design behind
each scrape and blow.
You chip away so much
that I would cling to.
Hewn and hurting now—
help me believe
your work is love,
and someday I will stand
revealed,
complete,
engraved with grace,
and free to gleam with glory.

—Sarah MacDonald