The Masterpiece Beneath the Muck
One day in lonely alleyway
a stranger sauntered with a sway
Among the stash of smelly trash
laid a framed canvas smeared with ash.
Looking at it he had a hunch
that the thing might be worth a bunch
so, he took it to an art shop
next to the old, battered bus stop.
With gentle care, the artist brushed
as stranger looked intent and hushed.
The dislodged ash revealed a trace
which proved to be a father’s face.
When the restorer’s work was done,
the pair beheld with faces stunned
the father looking at his son
with a forgiveness heaven-spun.
The painting was a masterpiece
the kind that’s lent on short-term lease
or sold at auction for a price
set high the wealthy to entice.
The muck diminished not its worth,
priceless it was though smeared by earth.
A parable of human life
besmirched by sin, sullied by strife.
Judge not a soul by outward look,
as some are wont to do a book.
Human life is of matchless worth,
because of God who gave them birth.
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