A Builder

Poem by Annette Sophie

"A Builder" (Seattle, 1943)

I. Oh, could I but tools obtain
Tools, although few and crude, I feign
A masterpiece would wrought
Alack, hope today seems blurred and remote.

II. Tools, aye, there the secret lies.
The wings of thoughts to the utmost corners flies.
The spirits of the spheres thy soul contact
If thou art chosen, alack!

III. Thine own weapon thou must wield
A master's will doth never yield
A giant's sword to sharpen, or a silken thread to weave --
No scarred nor knotted tools.

IV. The master lives to build, a seer uncompared
Yea, holiness of spirit, vision unmarred,
the glow of sunset and the morning dew
must all engulf the heart and soul of you.

V. The master -- youthful or of feeble strength,
Stone by stone will lay -- though bent and faint,
Oh where is the cue ?
Nought under heaven can a master's will subdue.

VI. The flame within the hearts of Man
is lighted by the Master's hand
of our creator, thus thou become the shining light
through the wounded hours of the night.

VII. Hence, a builder be.
The glowing light must shine through thee.
Reflecting on thy masterpiece,
the hand of God.