More Grace

This mirrored face and glazed eyes are in prison held
With a heart that sees only the scars of an aged tree
And the muck of regret in battle raged form I can tell
This is what I build for my goodness but I cannot see
There is a man of parts an endless heart who is free
To make the wrong as much as the right move upon sky
And sea. But the reflected fool a wizard might be
If his hands would live with his hopes and not wonder why.
And here look at this safe place, here I can have a word to sell
This wife of the universe has many a heart to give
She saw me with more than pupil, as an equal unknown
She saw clay and a way to be the great David of art, to tell
A story; my tales of my two cities. I was to be shown
How I could love the father me and the part I own

With Grace

As any man who in our world does long
for art might see in the mirror a man
of parts, I see  the muck and mud song
the ageing dying leather bound face and
hands broken, bleeding, calous. My wrong
mindedness is oft too sharp for kind hand.
I know everything and nothing, my brawn
is massive but lame in function. I modern man.
Yet somehow, against all cause, her love
matures, she who can sense that which I refuse
or cannot see. Where I see mud she sees clay.
Where I see a man broken by time and abuse
she sees a heart worthy and true. Every day
as wife, mother and queen of endless grace