Is so soft
and so gentle
That you can paint the sky.
Your hand is so quick
and so accurate
That you can draw each design
onto a beating butterfly’s wing.
My god, my artist, my painter up above,
I praise your intricate work,
The beauty in everything you make.
Every iris is a painting,
Each bone a sculpture.
Nothing is imperfect,
Not in your eyes which know all.
Like the art we make to mimic your own,
You are praiseworthy,
But not like a canvas is loved and adored.
We sing out to you, God is great,
And mean that you are our only idol,
A living piece of art,
A king who created us in your own image.
But above all,
You are mine, and everyone else’s.
You are God.