Paint my skin in springtime shades,
warm the tones of cold judgement.
Let Light wash over my frozen opinions
and brush aside arrogance and pride,
covering that powerful streak of stubborn selfishness
with magnificent magenta mercy,
graceful gouache glory.
Frame my life’s context
against the wall of Your gallery,
anoint my head with oils and pastels,
running over into lithographed lap.
For I am but a copy
until Your fingers draw out the Original;
I am but a replica
until Your signature calls me Salvaged.