The Artist And His Riddle
The Artist paints a landscape
Filled with trees and mountains
Colors of joy all around;
Sheep and deer and lions
Living together
Two children playing on the ground.
Vandal comes in.
He crosses out the picture;
Blood-red paint dripping down.
He hands the children brushes
And he calls the paint, "wisdom";
They spread the colors all around;
And blood and paint mingle
And the colors run together;
Who can tell "art" from happenstance?
The children are crying and we know they must be dying.
Who will give them another chance?
The edge of a city;
The scenary's still pretty;
Children and babies play.
The painting has been marred
And the edges have been charred,
But there's beauty in youth anyway.
The Artist paints a manger;
The birth of a baby,
Then He puts His brushes away.
He steps into the picture,
and He touches His creations
And He lives with them day by day.
A hillside has been painted
And a cross is standing
on which, the Artist dies.
The Vandal is peering
From behind the jeering,
Of a thousand painted eyes.
To the horror of Vandal,
The Artist is standing;
Brushes and pallette in His hand.
He erases the Vandal and all who believe him;
Paints fifty of a thousand lands.
He retouches the children,
And every face is smiling;
Then He steps inside.
With a kiss of His lips and a touch of His breath,
The children and the painting come alive.