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THE SCULPTOR Isaac slid his hand over the smooth, cool, sculpture. He studied the detail. He ran his curious blue eyes over every curve and indention. “Master,” he said, “how dost Thou capture every beautiful and significant feature? Every detail and complication? Mine eyes have never seen such wonderful handiwork.” The Sculptor gently smiled. He looked at the garden beside them. Large blue butterflies spread their wings over the white and orange lilies. He did not answer. Isaac admired the other works of art. There were a horse, a dolphin, a tree, and a deer. Several smaller statues surrounded them. Each one was perfectly shaped. Not a line was out of place. A soft, calming breeze swept through the garden. The sky was gray and peaceful. Morning dew was still on the grass, and the entire place was filled with quiet and tranquility. The Sculptor did not look up. His gentle, wrinkled hands were busy. He was making a bird. His gray and understanding eyes followed the curves and shapes. Isaac yearned to have the ability to do what his Master could do. “Isaac,” said the Sculptor, stopping His work to talk to him. “To sculpt and to build and to create, you must break the clay down. You must crush it and make it into dust, then mix it with water. This makes new clay that is pliable in your hands. Likewise, you must let the Sculptor of the universe- who created all things good- break you in His hands, so that He may use the hardened clay. Man is proud and cruel and hardened; the Sculptor must crush him, crush his pride, and crush his hardened heart so that He can make it new.” Isaac was silent. Understanding slowly came to his mind. His heart had been hardened. “I want to be crushed!” he cried out in a broken voice. The Sculptor held out his hands. They were stained with blood. Isaac wept. The Sculptor wrapped His arms around him. “Thou art forgiven.” he lovingly said. |
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