Unmatched Beauty
With no pencil, paper or brush in hand
The Lord has painted a picture for every man
Everything upon the earth
Came alive with every stroke
Of His mighty hand
For no one on earth can copy His work
For He is the master, the author of the book
poem by David Kush
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The Book Of Life Was Opened
The Book of Life was opened
And a name was written down
All of heaven stood and gazed
Not a movement, not a sound
The angels watched in silence
As the story did unfold
And from the pages of the book
The story it was told
And life sprung up from off the page
These words became a man
The angels gasped to see such work
To see God's mighty plan
A soul was fashioned in His hand
And how, no one could tell
It was marvelous and wonderful
And this my soul knows well
Where could I go from you Spirit Lord?
Could I hide in the depths of the sea?
No matter where I run to Lord
You still come after me
I could take the wings of the morning
And fly into the darkest night
And there be blinded by the darkness
And you would come and give me sight
I could ascend to the highest heaven
And I would find you there
I could fall to the lowest pits of hell
And discover that you are everywhere
And so you came and sought me out
Even in this hell dark place
For the day and night are both alike
As they gaze upon your face
For in the glorious light of heaven
There is no darkness that can stand
For through the very gates of hell
You came and took me by the hand
And you laid your hand upon me
That hand that gave me birth
That hand that knew me through and through
Before I came to earth
For before the earth was fashioned
That Book was in your hand
Before the sun shone in the sky
All of this was planned
Oh search me God and know my heart
That sin may have no place in me
For I was covered by your Blood
That precious Blood of Calvary
This sin it would assault my soul
And rob and steal and take from me
The testimony of my King
And what He did on Calvary
But praise the Lord there is no power
Neither hell nor death nor misery
Can come against the precious work
The precious work of Calvary
How precious are your thoughts to me
They're more in number than the sand
I'll praise you Lord eternally
My name was written by your hand.
poem by Frank McEleny
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Psalm 139
The Book of Life was opened
And a name was written down
All of heaven stood and gazed
Not a movement, not a sound
The angels watched in silence
As the story did unfold
And from the pages of the book
The story it was told
And life sprung up from off the page
These words became a man
The angels gasped to see such work
To see God's mighty plan
A soul was fashioned in His hand
And how, no one could tell
It was marvelous and wonderful
And this my soul knows well
Where could I go from you Spirit Lord?
Could I hide in the depths of the sea?
No matter where I run to Lord
You still come after me
I could take the wings of the morning
And fly into the darkest night
And there be blinded by the darkness
And you would come and give me sight
I could ascend to the highest heaven
And I would find you there
I could fall to the lowest pits of hell
And discover that you are everywhere
And so you came and sought me out
Even in this hell dark place
For the day and night are both alike
As they gaze upon your face
For in the glorious light of heaven
There is no darkness that can stand
For through the very gates of hell
You came and took me by the hand
And you laid your hand upon me
That hand that gave me birth
That hand that knew me through and through
Before I came to earth
For before the earth was fashioned
That Book was in your hand
Before the sun shone in the sky
All of this was planned
Oh search me God and know my heart
That sin may have no place in me
For I was covered by your Blood
That precious Blood of Calvary
This sin it would assault my soul
And rob and steal and take from me
The testimony of my King
And what He did on Calvary
But praise the Lord there is no power
Neither hell nor death nor misery
Can come against the precious work
The precious work of Calvary
How precious are your thoughts to me
They're more in number than the sand
I'll praise you Lord eternally
My name was written by your hand.
poem by Frank McEleny
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You Only Paint The Picture Once
(Teddy Gentry/Randy Owen/Ronnie Rogers/Greg Fowler)
Look at those evening shadows
Casting a peaceful light
The sun is disappearing
It's a beautiful sight
Moments caught forever
By the master's touch
A lasting reminder
To us
You only paint the picture once
(And) you only get one chance
Take the time to do your best
While the brush is in your hand
Make sure it's just right
Before the colors dry
You can't change it once it's done
You only paint the picture once
Love is the canvas
That's where it all starts
A lifetime together
Becomes a work of art
Just look what's been created
Between your heart and mine
Oh I believe that we're one of a kind
You only paint the picture once
(And) you only get one chance
Take the time to do your best
While the brush is in your hand
Make sure it's just right
Before the colors dry
You can't change it once it's done
You only paint the picture once
It's a portrait of life
You can't live it twice
You only paint the picture once
song performed by by Alabama
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Great Master Poet Wrote
A great master poet told
how nature interceded
and interrupted a architect’s design
and made it’s own adjustments in time
but that the master designing artist’s eye,
his mind, comprehended
the difference and from it found
a brilliant answer to where
the problems were
and yet a man of the book
took it upon himself
to declare the designers work
as a copy of strokes
made by the hand of God
which lead to the ruination
of that master architect.
Now if we follow this argument
every poem, even every thought,
every painting
about nature’s splendour
or even the beauty of the human being
or whatever,
you could connect to God or His creation,
even when we sing words, paint pictures
and create art
it does not belong to the author
but to the Lord God and his church.
l’Envoi
If you take the artist away
from designs, verses, paintings, music
(from whatever art)
it will not be there
and it will not exist,
which leaves me to conclude
that some men of the holy book
do claim in the name of the divine
that which does not belong to them
or their church.
poem by Gert Strydom
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When Earth's Last Picture Is Painted
When Earth's last picture is painted
And the tubes are twisted and dried
When the oldest colors have faded
And the youngest critic has died
We shall rest, and faith, we shall need it
Lie down for an aeon or two
'Till the Master of all good workmen
Shall put us to work anew
And those that were good shall be happy
They'll sit in a golden chair
They'll splash at a ten league canvas
With brushes of comet's hair
They'll find real saints to draw from
Magdalene, Peter, and Paul
They'll work for an age at a sitting
And never be tired at all.
And only the Master shall praise us.
And only the Master shall blame.
And no one will work for the money.
No one will work for the fame.
But each for the joy of the working,
And each, in his separate star,
Will draw the thing as he sees it.
For the God of things as they are!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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You draw beautifully with your pencil
You draw beautifully with your pencil,
sketches of almost any flower and plant,
things that are alive and some things that are dead
even a woman giving birth
on the beach.
You draw beautifully with your pencil
on a table are slices of bread
with a hungry dog on the other side;
things that are alive and some things that are dead,
there are children that are wasting away from starvation
and a woman’s hand with a wedding band.
You draw beautifully with your pencil,
a sounding level going down a well
being held by a strong male hand.
Things that are alive and some things that are dead,
you sketch and sometimes it’s any thing valuable;
even people in love on a tropical island
and you draw beautifully with your pencil
things that are alive and some things that are dead.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Live Forever
You painted me a picture of tomorrow
A place where you and I walked hand in hand
A world without despair and without shadows
But things just didn't turn out how we'd planned
Now you're gone
(Chorus)
And I believe that there is somewhere
Where the angels fill the sky
And I believe we'll live forever
You and I, you and I
Will never die
I wonder if you knew that you were leaving
I thought that I saw something in your eyes
You painted me a picture of believing
I'll see you there on the other side
And I'll be there
song performed by by Michael W. Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Painter In You!
who has painted your picture in my thoughts,
without a brush, the paints and the pallet,
not even sketched using a pencil and a knife,
the picture is perfect with the colors mixed,
your smiling is great with a thin line at the edges,
your eyes are wide open, sprinkling the cheerful messages,
every time the happy visuals of you pop out in the mind,
I couldn't have drawn such a beautiful portrait,
of you in my heart, who has done this painting?
You are the one who posed and painted on your own,
you are a great painter who can paint your pictures,
on everyone's heart whom you know, love and respect.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Am I a master
I am the master, master of art
have painted true pictures,
of rising sun, mountain, sea
through jungles flowing rivers,
shining stars, birds, cloudy sky,
can paint anything and everything.
insects, lions, bear and deer.
just like the living things.
I am the master, master of art,
can make my own paint and brush
Alas! but cannot create raw material
of any of paint, brush or canvas.
Oh! can not paint these seven
which are made only in heaven:
smell, touch, look, hear and taste,
emotions, thought and breathe.
No, I am not the master, master of art
can paint uncountable things yet not.
Not possible to paint love and laugh
I have to go again and again to learn
to the supreme master, who painted
the universe, stars, moon and sun
(C) S. D. Tiwari
poem by S.D. Tiwari
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Like Alice Does.
Alice sits brushing her hair,
stroke following stroke,
her husband sitting
on the edge of the bed
watching, studying her
hand and brush going
downward and out and
downward and out, and
as he watches he suddenly
remembers his mother
doing likewise and he
standing by the doorframe
of her bedroom, sees her
hand pull the brush through
her tight black hair, and
hears her sobbing voice
over the old white radio
playing some country song,
and senses an uneasiness
fill him like a wetting of pants,
and his mother gazing at him
in the mirror before her with
her red rimmed eyes and he
knowing as she lifts the brush
threateningly, that that way
pain comes and danger lies.
poem by Terry Collett
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What Mother Nature?
The often used phrase Mother Nature that to many seems to be so dear,
When used to describe the weather's maker is very blasphemous I fear.
The term is simply degrading and not befitting to The Creator of all,
And it is just one more sign of the depravity created by man's fall.
The Creator Himself makes the clouds his chariot in the sky up above,
And He rules from His Heavenly Throne with both wrath and with love,
He's not mother tending nature, but the Sovereign Master of the sky,
Who sends rain on both the righteous and unrighteous from on high.
From His hands He sends the lightning flashing down upon the earth,
This is The Creator's gracious warning to all of a new storm's birth.
God then follows this with the sound of His Majestic Awesome thunder,
And all this is just a small glimpse of God's Mighty Awe and Wonder.
When it becomes cold God sends the snow to blanket the now bare land,
Leaving a beautiful winter scene painted by The Master's Mighty hand.
The breath of God produces ice and the broad waters become frozen.
And the ice and snow that covers the earth stops the labor of all men.
No one truly knows from where the lightning and hail is dispersed,
Or exactly how and why the ice and snow is spread upon the earth.
The test will be the tribulation for all the learned and the wise,
To explain how Mother Nature made hailstones 100 pounds in size.
Writer's Guild
pencil is my friend
life is my master
book is my dream
and blank paper is my field
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Kahlo
She ran the school hand-in-hand with this boy
Creating mischief and mystery hand-in-hand with this boy
Together, fooling and tricking this man who painted his courage
She gleefully watched this man who painted his courage
She came to school each morning with this boy
Just to watch this mysterious painter man
She left school each night, with this boy
With the trickster boy, left the man
She ran into a block she couldn’t ignore
She was damaged beyond healthy repair
Carrying her as she bled, this boy
Saved her from the wreckage
Then left her to write him time and time again
Never once did he look at her letters, or care
She gave up, gave up on this boy
What could she have loved in this boy?
She picked up a brush and was like the man
She painted her pain and courage, like the man
She adored her paints
Admired her brush
Marveled at the creations
Fell in love with the canvas
Some time later, she again met the painter man
She adored the man
Admired the man
Marveled at the man
Fell in love with the man
poem by Allison Pardieck
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The Hand
only the human hand,
the caring hand,
the hand covered in blood
and filth, the hand swollen
bruised, and beaten...
the open hand,
not a fist anymore hand,
not afraid to let go hand,
never letting go hand...
feed the baby, plow the field hand,
stroke the face of
the old woman dying hand...
light the fires, sweep the floors hand...
the praying hand, the picking hand,
the paint the soul hand...
only the human hand
can touch with the heart of God!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Faith (live)
(HogarthKellyMosleyRotheryTrewavas)
What I have here in my heart
Is like faith, but not faith
For those without faith also have
What I have here in my heart
What I have here in my hand
Is like feeling but deeper
That's why I am here
What I have here in this room
Is knowledge without proof
What I have here in my hands
This is what I feel for you
It's why the Earth is alive
And makes electricity work
And fire dance in the sky
I feel inside the atoms
Where the science breaks down
What I have here in my hand
Is like faith, but not faith
For those without faith also have
What I have here in my hand
What I have here in my hand
Is like knowing but deeper
It's why I have faith
song performed by by Marillion
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The World is Earth
I have godly work to involve with the world,
The world is Earth, the master so supreme when unfurled.
The master of science is seeing a light on the end of the Earth,
The end of the Earth is near, so near, and so dear that we are in birth.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The Day of The Lord
The Day of the Lord is at hand, at hand:
Its storms roll up the sky:
The nations sleep starving on heaps of gold;
All dreamers toss and sigh;
The night is darkest before the morn;
When the pain is sorest the child is born,
And the Day of the Lord at hand.
Gather you, gather you, angels of God-
Freedom, and Mercy, and Truth;
Come! for the Earth is grown coward and old,
Come down, and renew us her youth.
Wisdom, Self-Sacrifice, Daring, and Love,
Haste to the battle-field, stoop from above,
To the Day of the Lord at hand.
Gather you, gather you, hounds of hell-
Famine, and Plague, and War;
Idleness, Bigotry, Cant, and Misrule,
Gather, and fall in the snare!
Hireling and Mammonite, Bigot and Knave,
Crawl to the battle-field, sneak to your grave,
In the Day of the Lord at hand.
Who would sit down and sigh for a lost age of gold,
While the Lord of all ages is here?
True hearts will leap up at the trumpet of God,
And those who can suffer, can dare.
Each old age of gold was an iron age too,
And the meekest of saints may find stern work to do,
In the Day of the Lord at hand.
On the Torridge, Devonshire,
September 10, 1849.
poem by Charles Kingsley
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0030 Your 'My Life' exercise book...
Buy a child's red-covered
'My Exercise Book'
like the one you bought
all those years ago
to build a bridge -
now you realise -
a warm reassuring bridge
between school and home
with its firm hand-rail
at both ends;
the river flowing so fast,
so powerful,
so beautiful
between those different banks
in the blank pages
of that book with its reassuring tables
on the back cover which speak of laws
which you may never read
then with the sharpened pencil
and the smell of cedar flakes
faling from the pencil-sharpener
sweet and haunting to your nose
and breathing heavier now
in this exciting, daunting task,
your head nearer the paper
than old schoolteachers would approve
and pencil gripped as firmly
as you would your life
write so carefully on the first white page
as if the beginning holds the whole story
intended but as yet unfurled,
'My Life'..
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Big Hand
A big hand never released the big men,
Their face relaxed, wrinkles deepening,
Gazing started and stopped for they were big.
During the night was a trough, and a crest,
Graphs of paper gripped us with mighty weather,
Eyes became alert, ears sensed the meanings,
Words took effect, and words were a pleasure,
Somebody with a line of graphical art
Should sway the earth and soil.
The head slammed as the big hand was released.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Lord of the Flies
Oh Master my Master
Oh where have you been
I wallowed in filth and
I drowned in sin
Oh Master my Master
It's my rotten luck
To swim in the decay
And swallow the muck
Oh Master my Master
I stand in the fires
Surrounded by murderers
Thieves, cheaters, and liars
Oh Master my Master
the earth has turned red
Fluid with blood
Of the recently dead
Oh Master my Master
What's wrong with the world
The blackness unfolds
Like a flag that's unfurled
Oh Master my Master
You ignore my cries
And now I'm quite sure
You're the Lord of the Flies
poem by Anonymous Ghurl
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