The Sculptor: Heb. 12:5-11; 2 Cor. 4:11

 •  1 min. read  •  grade level: 5
I saw a Sculptor, all intent
Upon his marble white;
And all his energies were bent
To mold it day and night.
With mallet hard, and tools of strength,
And many a stroke severe,
The block was made to feel at length
That skillful hands were near.
And I beheld a child look on,
And gaze with wondering eye;
She saw the splinters one by one
In all directions fly.
The doubts that filled that simple mind
Were hard to understand—
Like curious things that children find
Upon the ocean strand.
The marble chips at every stroke
Were scattered, one by one;
When childish doubts broke out and spoke:
“Father, why waste the stone?”
“It is,” he said, in accents mild,
“By strokes and heavy blows
That, as the marble wastes, my child,
The more the statue grows.”
Are we not all but children small,
In doubt and want of sight?
And, like the child, we call
In darkness for the light.
How many curious questions still
Are asked by children here,
As we behold a Father’s skill
Excite our childish fear?
We see our dear ones pass away,
Whom we have loved so long;
Our little ones, who could not stay,
Whose life was rich in song.
We see our loved possessions fly,
And leave us with such haste;
Then ask, in our simplicity,
“O, why was all this waste?”
And then amidst our trembling fears
A Father’s voice is heard,
Who wipes away our falling tears
By His most gentle word.
“It is,” He says, in accents mild,
“By strokes and heavy blows
That, as the marble wastes, my child,
The more the statue grows.”