The Finishing Touch

The Master finisher reaches out
with His nail scarred hand and
applies the finishing touch,
to the now older man who has served
Him so well, and has learned to
lean on Him much.
Each final stroke He makes, very
patiently, He cuts and chisels and
strokes and polishes each little flaw.
Ever so tender is the masters touch,
He misses not one of the flaws.
He stops and looks at it lovingly
his vessel He has formed.
Patiently, carefully He puts it
down,
Until that future morn.
When one last time,
In picking it up,
His reflection He now does see.
It's time now to bring My
vessel home, to My Fathers house
in Eternity.

Patricia Hamel (c) February 7, 2000

A Job Well Done

I’m sure many a mother must ask:
“How did I get here?
Where did this job come from?
It’s so overworked and so underpaid;
There are so little thanks,
There are noses to wipe,
Dirty hands on the walls,
Crying voices, never a moment to be alone”
Dirty dishes in an empty kitchen,
All have run off as soon as the food is gone.
Finally, night comes and I am alone,
Things are tidy once again,
Only to start over the next day to the same routine,
Where I ask is the thanks?
Does anyone see what I am doing?
Does anyone care?
I hear a still small voice saying,
“My child, I know you are here,
For this is where I have called you.
Your work is my work,
Your reward you will have some day,
I thank you for serving me in this way;
Each nose you wiped, you did it unto Me.
The times you wanted to be alone.
I was there to help you.
The kitchen…empty after a meal?
Mother it was not empty, for I was there with you.
I did not run off and leave you,
The thanks, my child is in your hands,
Do you see what you did today?
You cared…and Mother,
You did a job well done.

Patricia Hamel © 1980