I stand and marvel at the sky;
Picasso paintings passing by.
Who holds a palette in their hand
Creating beauty half as grand?

I say to you no artist lives
Who can create what nature gives.
Man truly is the neophyte,
When matched with nature's living light.

I gaze and see a masterpiece,
My loving awe will never cease
Nor will the artist from on high,
Whose beauty served will never die.

The streaks of gold and ebony
Move hearts and minds to ecstasy;
I bow before this awesome art,
No greater gift has blessed my heart.

a broken-winged bird
still sings a song of beauty,
to the broken ear