Day after day the sculptor surveys his work,
in different lights, from different angles;
in different lights, from different angles;
chipping and filing, smoothing the rough edges,
heightening the corners.
Concentrating keenly, paying careful attention, never losing focus;
making quick glances between his subject, his hands and the precious material at his fingers...
making quick glances between his subject, his hands and the precious material at his fingers...
Blood, sweat and tears - the sculptor pours energy and effort,
and time into his creation...
and time into his creation...
Sometimes speaking tenderly to his work; muttering words of life,
as a Father to a child, calling it to respond, willing it to be shaped by his loving care...
as a Father to a child, calling it to respond, willing it to be shaped by his loving care...
Succeeding, failing, rescuing and repairing - sometimes seeming to take one step forward and two steps back.
The fragile material strains and weakens - try again.
And then, one moment, one final mark, so obvious that it was if it was planned from the very beginning, so perfect - the marvellous creation is complete...
The day, the time, the hour - that up until now had “not yet come” - arrives; rushing into the present with such force that it causes the sculptor to hold his breath...
And, he can barely contain the cry, “It is finished.”
And, he can barely contain the cry, “It is finished.”
Reverently he bows his head.
His life’s work: a beautiful image; a glorious self-portrait and it cost him his very self.
His life’s work: a beautiful image; a glorious self-portrait and it cost him his very self.
His life’s work: this sculptor, this creator;
A sculpture: his body upon a wooden cross, his body pierced as a result of his own handiwork;
a life-given - blood and water; flesh and spirit - for the sins of the whole world...
