The Sculptor

I feel Him chip away at my flesh. The vibrations shake to my bones. Pieces that were once part of me now fall helplessly to the floor. Every scrape of the chisel, Every pound of the hammer, Every piece that is broken from me stings with immense pain. Why doesn't He stop? Why is The Sculptor so cruel? Doesn't He realize that each swing He takes is a nightmare to me? I would be better off as stone that was never touched, I would be more content without the suffering that comes apon me, But I wouldn't be a work of art. Each chip of the chisel is intended to remove a piece that shouldn't be there. Each pound of the hammer is meant to force the hideous fragments far from me. Each move The Sculptor makes, takes me closer to His plan for me. I must trust, knowing that He never takes off too much. I must be ready, knowing that He never leaves His work incomplete. I must be thankful, knowing that I am being made beautiful in His eyes. The acute pain is only a short part of His plan. The lasting anguish fades in its own time. Though heart, and soul, and body all grieve, the permanent state will be that of finished work. I may not know the reason for each strike, I may not know the fault with each sundered chunk, And I may never know. I know the sting of the chisel now, I know The Sculptor has a plan, My part is to trust that He will not work forever ... but that He will be done.