Psalm

The craftsman perched beside His bench

Raw sound beneath His fists

He carves, and scrapes and sands

Until the noise does not resist

Hours, hours, days and months

He peels the dead weight back

Like steam on ponds He’ll never see

Him hidden in His shack

But time it has a funny way

Of making work get done

This man so busy at his art

Ten fingers dance and run

My thoughts are merely vapor

Words never to be wrought

He works to rhythms no one feels

And no man can be taught

What songs does this box yet contain

Who’s fingers grace and draw refrain

The Builder has too little fans

Yet holds our sound deep

In His hands