The builders hands


This builder’s hands, one so long it reaches the depths of the sea

His skill and precision is beyond the grasp of Einstein’s solution

Designs having specific connection                 

A logical relation,

An algorithm with intricate correlation

Like string puppet they all work in synergy  

His sculptures have complexities which the physical sense cannot see, feel, taste or touch

Beyond theory he transcends edicts and decrees substances

The foundations lay to rest upon his strength

The bee’s fly through his path

And he fathoms the depths of every skill


This builder’s hands has bruises

A tradesman is scared by the work of his hands

The sparks from his furnace hits his hands,

Yet he does not relent in his trade,

 This design must reach its desire

There is a specification which he must meet

Without him this design is flawed, and can be washed away by a flood

It takes the spirit and the blood, this mix is the potion

That is brewed to bring salvation

Freedom of slavery, from sins treachery, the wicked cords of misery

The filthiness of man ever growing charity

So while he works his blood pour upon is object

Neither to destroy a broken bruised reed nor snuff out a smoldering wick


This builders hands is motivated

His only desire is to see his object complete

His workshop is the earth, an island town surrounded by wickedness and sexual discontent

Still each object must come out prefect

Without blemish and stain

For its final destination is the home of a King

Living on the isle of heaven

A kingdom of beauty beyond comprehension

His reward a station above every nation and every name ever mention

He was not nominated he is dedicated to rebuild this entity

Which the master created and a thief embezzled


This builders hands is uncomplaining

There is a way he cannot stray

He employs the skill of his plumbline and measuring tape

He does not compromise for his design must please the master

With enduring pains and serene agony

The hammer hits his hands

Still he keeps shaping and scraping

The women at the door scream with grief to see such twinge

He speaks to the women saying:

“Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me; weep for yourselves and for your children.”

Walking through his station he reaches the skull, there he hangs with the builder’s hands stretched


Now the builder’s work is complete

Like Mozart the rhythms and lyrics

All make a synergy

That energy which the alleluia chorus echoes

Is all coming to a crescendo

So all the regulation of the master

Rolls as the drummer hits is notes

On instrument will miss a note

Cos the conductor is raising his hand

And the beauty of the song

Echoes in the auditorium of our heart for it cost the master his life

21:05 GMT




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