Moved by Grace, Held by Skill

 




We dance, we weep, we rise, we fall—
But who, unseen, directs it all?
Each step we take, each breath we claim,
Is stirred by the skilled hands of the Master.

Not ours the thread, not ours the cord,
But bound to will, silent and stored.
We are but dolls,
Moved by a grace that charts our way.

The Master holds the subtle string,
With fingers light as dawn in spring.
No boast of ours, no pride, no plan—
But every turn, a mark divine

We spin in joy, we bow in pain,
Yet never once are we in vain.
For every twitch, and every pause,
Is bound within the law of grace.

His will—our breath. His glance—our light.
His silence turns our day to night.
And if that Hand should ever rest,
The puppet falls, unstrung, unblessed.

So let us bend and bow with grace,
Not seek to lead, but take our place.
For freedom lies not in control—
But in surrender of the soul.

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