The Artist

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On the day I met the artist
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Like medium that speaks to man
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I said, “Please reveal your glory
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And as the paint drips from your hand
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Use the brightest of the pigments
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The most beautiful of hues!”
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But the first stroke a dark shade of blue
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So I begged and then I pleaded,
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 “I do not understand the means,
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Why would you put the hope inside me,
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if you would not paint the dream?”
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He said, “Don’t let glory’s reflection
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distract you from glory.
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Remember that all good things come from me.”
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With each stroke his hand was steady,
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and I found myself in awe,
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For as I stood back from the painting, it was not
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of me at all. And the darker shades he painted,
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the ones that I had asked for not,
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Had put me in the shadow of a cross.