My Mother told me Christ was a carpenter.
I too, She said, would become a carpenter of sorts.
Instead of splintered hands wearing thick callouses,
My palms bear ink stains that won’t wash out.
My Mother told me that Christ was a carpenter.
She said My Father was a carpenter as well.
Instead of mallets and beams, He works with hopes and dreams,
Building His Children up one drop of sweat at a time.
My Mother told Me that Christ was a carpenter.
Curious, I asked what that made Her.
She replied, “The Architect and The Structure.
The Creator and Masterpiece.”
We come from a long line of carpenters,
And We are bound to shape this Earth
Until We walk into the shady grove across the River.