The yard was full of chippings,
and the air rang out with blows.
Enormous blocks of sandstone,
freshly quarried, stood in rows.
The masons, with their muscles
rippling tight like coils of rope,
Carved mighty troughs, great cisterns,
every blow being in the hope
The rock lay true and free from
flaws, their fear each time they hit
Was seeing weeks of patient
work just fall apart and split.
A gloomy bearded man turned up,
and gave a rock a prod,
Then had a gloomy thought which he
was certain came from God.
"My people, I once carved you out
with skill from chosen stone
To be My chosen vessels,
to be used by Me alone.
I drew on living water, and
I filled you to the brink,
So any one with thirst for God
could come to you and drink.
But you ignored My workmanship,
and thought you'd try your own.
Carved troughs with human sweat, not grace,
from unselected stone.
And now the place is full of troughs
that leak through cracks and holes.
They need My workmanship, not your's,
My world of thirsty souls."
This poem was a finalist in the November 2016 poetry contest