Chips - Max M. Johnson

The Sculptor’s tool fashioned with skill

The Sculptor’s tool fashioned with skill

A beautiful work,

And many a chip

Fell useless, and silent, and still.

The stone was so cold and resisting;

But His plan inspired and warm.

He wrought His good work,

And many a chip

Gave place to intelligent form.

I noticed with evident int’rest

The contrast that grew more and more —

His orderly work

And all of those chips

That lay scattered around on the floor.

And when He had finished His carving,

I hardly believed it was true —

So perfect a work,

But so many chips

Had to fall from the stone ere ‘twas through.

I asked if He’d tell me His secret.

He smiled as He turned and said, “Son, —

Takes lots of hard work,

And many a chip

Must fall ere the task can be done.”

Now, what are the chips, oh so many

That sooner or later must go,

If God, in His work

Would fashion of me

A vessel His beauty to show?

Those things of our clinging “old nature”,

Of hearts that are hardened and blind

Make difficult work

For our Lord to form

Of us, what He has in His mind.

I lifted my heart as I pondered

And prayed to my Sculptor above:

“Oh, work Thy good work,

Yes, chip after chip,

And fashion me, Lord, in Thy love.”

Max M. Johnson

1956