Our Craft, Our Shepherd
Once upon a time they awoke,
Not without reason and not without duty
Never taken from their daily quest and motion
Many of kin: each to the craft of making
Each to the craft
Sublime and gentle and real
Not without a moment for doubt and not without pain
For even when the painter took his feather bristle brush
His canvas the Lord and The Shepherd of his aching soul
He cast the pastel paints of blood and water
And though they seeped from the edge of deviance
And danced the devil’s dance of desecration,
He was master and voice of the craft of making
Day n’er passed without a fruitful yield
Much the same to the first of kin
The smith took to his jaded armor suit
Splint and chain and leather weave of earthly fleshes
Laboured by the raging furnace of his aching soul
Meeting hammer to anvil in lightning thrusts of might
Fielding the shoulder shield and longbow too
That the wild beast fair and strong should follow
Become the warding head of his wooden lintel cabin
For even when the smith took his bravery and brawn
His anvil the platform to iron the splinter imperfections
He struck the blows of bread and wine
And though they glowed amber-red from the edge of zeal
And danced the devil’s dance of desecration,
He was master and voice of the craft of making
Day n’er passed without a fruitful yield
Once upon the final days of their induction
The paintersmith and bloodwine birthed the consciousness
Divine and stoic adjudicator of our raging passions
And the utterance of her lips alone, the whisper
Affirmed that we took to our craft for the self-making
And for each day we took to fuse
Our dazzling fruits and falterings
The flesh of life would proudly marry the tapestry
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