He took the block of wood in hand,
And sensed its inner seed;
Within the grain, a spirit,
Beckoning to be freed;

He closed his eyes and held it still,
And still did the Whittler wait,
For the voice that lay beneath the skin
Of this wood inanimate;

He felt its roughness, and its warmth,
As he slowly made a start;
With hopeful eyes,
He whittled, 'till he
Gently formed its heart;

His gaze fell on an error
As he held it to the light,
A mistake, or a suggestion
To re-direct his sight?

He bent his frame into the work
As he held it reverently,
Lost track of worry, time, and place,
And let his mind go free;

Smoothed at last, and polished,
He turned it in his hand,
Smiled in grateful wonder,
And swept away the sand;

The Master watches, and He guides
The hands of everyone,
And we cannot know the outcome,
Until the Whittler's done.

Lord, I am not perfect,
But I know that you are not finished with me yet;
When you are, I will be exactly what and where I am supposed to be.
Edie Batstone