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.