C
Written By
Christopher Brownie
Commanding the commencement of collection, a painter gathered his colorful selections in the direction of his new found affection, a window with a white complexion. A canvas, although an absent section, won the election of his perfection. It stood, submissively waiting for the connection of a caretaker to convey the painter’s reflection. Contemplating carefully his craft, the painter confidently coerced a draft, “A caretaker indeed!” he laughed for his creation would now be staffed. A brush, although brown and bristling, was drowned, glistening with a hue of red. Listening closely to what the painter said, it realized that it had been chosen above its brethren’s heads. It thought “what an honor to be the one to tread. So on it fled to the canvas’ stead, commissioned to be the caretaker, the painter’s sled on this snow white bed. With one masterful stroke of the brush the painter provoked the canvas to blush with a lush crimson stream into its once white theme. Both the brush and canvas beamed as they gleamed with the painter’s dream which had now been made to be seen.
When the brush and canvas first met they knew it was a moment they would never forget. As the color set, they decided to let the moment linger, the moment when they were brought together by the painter’s fingers. Like a ringer the canvas and brush called again for the painter to be the bringer together of the two singers. Harmonizing they sang in the melody of red and white until the painter changed the sight. Brown took flight and then golden light. Blue soon showed its might along with a purple bite. Like a symphony conductor with his wand the painter went on and on, depicting an image that surpassed words and beyond. The frog had found its pond just as the brush had found its bond with the canvas, a relationship the two had grown quite fond of. With a final colorful shove “That’s it!” the painter exclaimed. “I’ll call it love” for in the painters hands the brush and canvas fit like a glove.
Although this seems to be a tale of art, it’s actually the story of marriage in three parts. From start to finish, their parts never diminish, nor extinguish inside of each other’s hearts. God is the painter you see. The canvas was my wife to be, and the brush is the husband, that’s me. For when God brought us together my love, my canvas, I turned into we, plants turned into trees, and rivers turned into seas. He used me with each stroke of his hand to display on you his master plan. Red for the blood that was shed. For after he bled he said it is finished and then rose from the dead. Brown for the cross to which he was nailed, yet he prevailed as he wailed father forgive them for those who falsely hailed. Gold for the travesty that befell his majesty, even though it was our sin that was in dire need of amnesty. Blue for the living water that flowed from the potter, and baptized us to be his sons and daughters. Purple for his royalty and to show our loyalty to the king of grace, for now we have been counted worthy to look upon his face.
My beautiful canvas, that’s why we met. That’s why these colors are now set into the depths of your soul. I lost all control when I realized the goal of my role. I’m just a poll whose heart you stole. That’s what I thought when God dipped me in the bowl. Through us he made an amazing picture, a fixture of his mixture. His word has spoken, giving us this token, that the three stranded cord is not easily broken. When others see us may they see him, as their eyes swim at the sight of our limbs interwoven together like a net and a rim. May his spirit become bright and brim as our fleshly desires go dark and dim. May Satan’s dominion be trimmed as we fast and slim. May Christ advance as we glance at each other’s stance. With every chance we will show him in our circumstance. My beautiful canvas you are the object of my affection for in you I see his complexion, his perfection, and his reflection. It’s his resurrection that makes me gush with this romantic mush, but what else can I do? He’s the painter and I’m the brush.
Christopher Brownie
Commanding the commencement of collection, a painter gathered his colorful selections in the direction of his new found affection, a window with a white complexion. A canvas, although an absent section, won the election of his perfection. It stood, submissively waiting for the connection of a caretaker to convey the painter’s reflection. Contemplating carefully his craft, the painter confidently coerced a draft, “A caretaker indeed!” he laughed for his creation would now be staffed. A brush, although brown and bristling, was drowned, glistening with a hue of red. Listening closely to what the painter said, it realized that it had been chosen above its brethren’s heads. It thought “what an honor to be the one to tread. So on it fled to the canvas’ stead, commissioned to be the caretaker, the painter’s sled on this snow white bed. With one masterful stroke of the brush the painter provoked the canvas to blush with a lush crimson stream into its once white theme. Both the brush and canvas beamed as they gleamed with the painter’s dream which had now been made to be seen.
When the brush and canvas first met they knew it was a moment they would never forget. As the color set, they decided to let the moment linger, the moment when they were brought together by the painter’s fingers. Like a ringer the canvas and brush called again for the painter to be the bringer together of the two singers. Harmonizing they sang in the melody of red and white until the painter changed the sight. Brown took flight and then golden light. Blue soon showed its might along with a purple bite. Like a symphony conductor with his wand the painter went on and on, depicting an image that surpassed words and beyond. The frog had found its pond just as the brush had found its bond with the canvas, a relationship the two had grown quite fond of. With a final colorful shove “That’s it!” the painter exclaimed. “I’ll call it love” for in the painters hands the brush and canvas fit like a glove.
Although this seems to be a tale of art, it’s actually the story of marriage in three parts. From start to finish, their parts never diminish, nor extinguish inside of each other’s hearts. God is the painter you see. The canvas was my wife to be, and the brush is the husband, that’s me. For when God brought us together my love, my canvas, I turned into we, plants turned into trees, and rivers turned into seas. He used me with each stroke of his hand to display on you his master plan. Red for the blood that was shed. For after he bled he said it is finished and then rose from the dead. Brown for the cross to which he was nailed, yet he prevailed as he wailed father forgive them for those who falsely hailed. Gold for the travesty that befell his majesty, even though it was our sin that was in dire need of amnesty. Blue for the living water that flowed from the potter, and baptized us to be his sons and daughters. Purple for his royalty and to show our loyalty to the king of grace, for now we have been counted worthy to look upon his face.
My beautiful canvas, that’s why we met. That’s why these colors are now set into the depths of your soul. I lost all control when I realized the goal of my role. I’m just a poll whose heart you stole. That’s what I thought when God dipped me in the bowl. Through us he made an amazing picture, a fixture of his mixture. His word has spoken, giving us this token, that the three stranded cord is not easily broken. When others see us may they see him, as their eyes swim at the sight of our limbs interwoven together like a net and a rim. May his spirit become bright and brim as our fleshly desires go dark and dim. May Satan’s dominion be trimmed as we fast and slim. May Christ advance as we glance at each other’s stance. With every chance we will show him in our circumstance. My beautiful canvas you are the object of my affection for in you I see his complexion, his perfection, and his reflection. It’s his resurrection that makes me gush with this romantic mush, but what else can I do? He’s the painter and I’m the brush.