“Lord, make me more like Jesus,” I prayed.
“Yes, Beloved. I will,” He smiled.
He began to lay out the tools of His trade,
A sculptor’s tools, for shaping His child.
“Oh no, Lord, not those,” I gently whined,
As chisel and mallet He took in hand,
“Use instruments of a softer kind,
To help me walk as faith demands.”
“See, over here, the tools I’ve laid,
To gladden my spirit and brighten my eye.
Surely, the velvet cloth of blissful days,
Will change my heart into one like Christ’s.”
“And here,” I went on, “Another I’ve brought,
A feathered brush of comfort and ease,
To keep at bay life’s dust and rot,
This will bring holiness, certainly.”
“At end, I’ve laid a pleasant salve,
Of bountiful health and silver and gold,
Take this, Lord; it’s yours to have,
To make me for the gospel bold.”
“Wish you to remain a stone?”
I heard my Master say,
“My tools are used to chip and hone
What looks not like Christ away.”
“The mallet of trial, the chisel of need,
The grind of suffering,
These in love and grace I wield,
To conform you to the likeness of your King.”
“Your implements will come, in time,
Velvet will dry the tears you weep,
Feathers brush off toil’s grit and grime,
Salve, your deepest pain will ease.”
“This will make me like my Lord?” I groaned in disbelief…
“Do not spurn my tools, my child” my God said, lovingly,
“For Christ was a Man of Sorrows, acquainted with grief,
And learned obedience through suffering.”
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