An empty canvas waits before the painter
It waits to be the painting it must be
Unto this end, it's rightfully been created
To reflect rightfully what the painter sees
That I wonder what His eyes are now beholding
As they surely turn their gaze to behold me
As my lips so often speak the name of Jesus
Will the canvas hold his image within me
For many willfully join at the Lord's table
When beckoned there to feast or to dine
But who among us will still be found faithful
When we are beckoned
To drink the chalice of His wine
Few be the lovers
In this painting
Few will be the lovers
Of the cross
Yet many here still seek to be exalted
And many here still seek to be found first
And many here still seek a consolation
Demanding blessings when deserving the curse
It waits to be the painting it must be
Unto this end, it's rightfully been created
To reflect rightfully what the painter sees
That I wonder what His eyes are now beholding
As they surely turn their gaze to behold me
As my lips so often speak the name of Jesus
Will the canvas hold his image within me
For many willfully join at the Lord's table
When beckoned there to feast or to dine
But who among us will still be found faithful
When we are beckoned
To drink the chalice of His wine
Few be the lovers
In this painting
Few will be the lovers
Of the cross
Yet many here still seek to be exalted
And many here still seek to be found first
And many here still seek a consolation
Demanding blessings when deserving the curse
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