Sculpted by the Hands of God

Look, my child, and see
Right there, that statue on the right
Was carved in a land far across the sea,
In a cavern late at night.
'Twas when the moon had reached its zenith,
And the stars perfectly aligned
That the idea alighted upon the craftsman
Digging its hooks into his mind.
While his ears filled with the songs of angels,
Heavenly hands guiding his own,
He picked up his tools,
And took his chisel to the stone.

Listen, my child, and hear
The adoring praise of the crowd,
Filled with awe over every detail,
And more so over every perfect imperfection allowed.
But the sculptor, my child, accepted no praise.
You may question why and think him a fool,
But in his eyes, God was the craftsman,
And he was just a tool.
So the work of art you see just to your right,
It was not chiseled by a mere mortal man,
But carefully planned and sculpted
By the hands of God in heaven.