The author of heaven; wrote upon the tablet of my stony heart. Like when he wrote upon the sands, His inscription remains hidden… sacred, and intimate. His whispered words, etching love, like no one else can, upon my very existence… the Michelangelo of all creation; He chipped away at everything I was… my lust, pride, doubt… everything chipped down to the beauty that is His masterpiece. I can’t say I am myself; for what am I, but a slab? Can I be anything but a cold, flat, purposeless and shapeless object, rendering nothing but a blank stare from the all judging eyes of this world?

It hurts… each stab of the chisel cracks me… it breaks me down and I feel so exposed… every imperfection, falling in front of me like a waterfall; strong, ever running and flowing into a pool of guilt… Is this really me? This wretched, filthy slush that leaves me dank, unwanted and an eyesore to the common Pharisee…. That mossy, slimy, slippery piece of stone. Solitary, alone and unwanted.

The Master brings polish… bah! Like if that would work! I’d just be a shiny piece of garbage! I may look cleaned up on the outside, but it will never change who I am… just a cold, heartless slab of stink. Not even worth a second glance. Perhaps, I may look a little better, at least… BOOM! The incoming hammer scatters me about like little ants at the sign of a fleshy giant. I CAN’T TAKE THIS ANYMORE! What do you want from me??? I never asked to be  broken… I never asked to shine and shimmer like a candle in the night… Why is Your love hurting me? Isn’t it supposed to make me feel better?

There He goes again… smoothening my edges. The sharp, narcissistic corners that were once my cornerstones: gone. I didn’t even have a chance to see them go; how I loved them… I felt as if those edges defined me; they weren’t pretty, but at least I could hurt others. That made me feel like less of a rectangular block of trash… And really, did you have to bring that chisel back? I really despise that tool…

I don’t even recognise myself anymore… naked, asymmetric, not even resembling that mould that I used to fit in so comfortably… I feel putrid; disgusted at my own existence… what IS this? This misshapen, half cracked piece of confusion… this was never what I asked for. All I asked for was to be loved, and not to feel like nothing… I don’t even know what I feel like…

But here he was, smiling… smiling??? He placed a hand on me… caressing the little chips and cracks… adorningly looking at all the faults in my rock shaped heart, and whispered, with such a soft, gentle tone… “I’m not done yet.”

If this half-made statue could lower its chin, you bet I would have. I’m not even sure I have a chin, frankly. But something in His voice told me just to trust Him this once, and to stop fighting Him for if but just a second.

And then I saw it.

It was like in a mirror; not quite clear, but I know what I saw. I was made in His image and likeness; perfect… righteous and holy… I was fashioned with purpose; remarkably remodelled to everything I wish I could have been. There was nothing wrong with me. He was there too; He looked upon me, held me in His arms and said, “Well done, good and faithful servant.” I really didn’t understand His words at all; as far as I could see, He did all the work. All I did was sit there and feel sorry for myself.

Snap back to reality; I see myself once more… miserable, lonely, struggling and about ready to simply break to pieces. Yet, within all this stony, stubborn mess, I see evidence of His work; I see that the chisel and hammer was what was shaping me; the polish was a bit too much, in my esteem, but hey; I’m no artist. So, I’ll trust Him. Clearly, He has a much better idea of what He’s doing than I am. 




(image from


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