What is its purpose?
He is gentle, controlled, as He chips away the ruined pieces.
It pains me, and I cry out, cringing away.
But the Sculptor is kind, patient. He sometimes pauses, giving me a moment to realize the pain is necessary to shape me into something better, something He can use.
As more pieces fall away, some so tiny they can barely be seen, I can’t help but ask, “Why did the Sculptor pick me out of so many other, better stones for this one sculpture He has in mind?”
I am awed, humbled, even frightened. Will His sculpture be as beautiful and as useful as He imagines, or is there in me a flaw so deep and as yet unseen, that once He reaches it, I will be nothing but a disappointment?
“Have faith, my child,” He whispers. “I know everything about you, and my hands and eyes are keen. You will be shaped as I intend. Nothing I create goes to waste.”
My fear fizzles, replaced with hope and eager anticipation.
I watch as the Sculptor works, turning me into . . . I don’t know what. But I need not worry. The Sculptor knows.