~Wesley Benson~

THE ART OF LOVE
A page without word has but little effect,

It's value is nothing at all.

A stone left uncut, although standing erect,

Is useless except for a fall.

The canvas as stretched is a colorless plain,

Until the fair Master's caress.

Our lives, too are painted with joy and with pain,

However the Lord may impress.

I witnessed a masterpiece back in the Spring

A sight I am glad I could see.

The colors He used were a beautiful thing

The canvas He painted was me.

I sat and I waited in worry and prayer

As a baby boy held to his life.

The thoughts of concern filled the hospital air

With a tension to cut with a knife.

Faith was the first volor under the brush

The color of grandmothers' eyes.

When doctor's reports brought a worrisome hush,

These ladies believed through the cries.

The next shade applied was the color of fear

I saw it in grandfather's stance.

And keeping his fmaily from seeing a tear

He showed me his fright with a glance.

The friends were there gathered in silent repose

With sorrow their color of choice.

As tears left their eyelids and fell past their nose,

I heard a slight crack in their voice.

A pastor was present with Bible in hand

And strength was the color he brought.

I saw a resolve in his dutiful stand

His strength was the theme of his thought.

These colors in chorus were setting the stage

A painting I'd seen far to much.

I started to feel pangs of sorrow and rage

But then came the great MAster's touch.

I watched as a mommy sat holding her child,

His daddy looked on from above.

And there came the brush stroke so gentle and mild,

The color it carried was love.

The child was ready to give up his fight

His small frame was tired and still.

But there in that room, under cover of night,

The Artist deliverd a thrill.

The stroke of His brush filled the portrait with love

That shone through the couple's embrace.

Their son was now walking in Glory above,

As they kissed the soft skin of his face.

I know that right then I was given a gift,

To glimpse a miraculous sight.

The love in the room caused my poor heart to lift

I scarcely could see for the light.

There was love in the way he supported her head

And love in the smile she returned

It was love that I saw lay their child in the bed

And love as their crying eyes burned.

I've been to museums with exhibits of fame

To draw the whole world through their halls,

But the most perfect portrait was not in a frame

And cannot be hung on a wall.

I've seen works that linger with memory fair,

Those images fade as old art,

But this portrait of love that the Lord let me share

Will forever hang fast in my heart.