The Master of Masters

There is a master who has made a song

    And tuned alike the heartbeats of a throng;

Like strings all elements of earth he binds

    And o'er them guides the thunder and the winds;

And, playing ever with unwearied hand,

Sings to a world that will not understand:

A master who has colored blue the sky,

    And painted on the background of the wave,

And hewn colossal forms on mountains high

    And molded them of metal in the cave:

But all the knowledge that the world has brought

Cannot explain the meaning of his thought.

There is a master with a tongue divine

    Who has revealed the power of God o'er man;

He has interpreted with voice and sign

    The record of his works since time began:

They called him God in days that went before;

Today they scorn him, worshiping no more.

O earthly artist! what are thy small deeds?

    Thy feeble carvings and thy books and creeds?

Dost thou complain that some among the throng

    Like not thy picture, and sing not thy song?

Then gaze upon the Master, and be proud,

Thou Son of God, rejected by the crowd!

~Adam Mickiewicz