Stickmen

a paper, pen, a hand of sticks,
writes a picture for noone.
burning ink, time, and candle wicks,
hoping for the applause of some.

i look around and hear stick hands,
but stick hands belong to stick men,
if I long for the roar of much applause,
then i chase nothing, yet again.

we are all stick men,
so simple compared to one who draws.
the One who pens this story lets us live.
to His stickmen He chose to give:

freedom, life, love,
forgiveness, grace, mercy-
then why do I seek approval from simple men?
what does this paper have to offer?

this paper will burn,
its smoke will sting my eyes,
the cheers will turn to snapping,
of sticks in fire that never dies.

my stick hand belongs to a stick man,
and i too am on a page,
so who am i to withold the Artist's love and grace?

i must learn to serve the artist first,
His pen directs my path.
He breathes life into these worn-out sticks,
and stickmen will see at last.