With steady hands and mind as clear as glass,
The Sculptor kneads the cool and heavy clay.
He watches all the celestial shadows pass,
And gives the human form its breath today.
He loves the white of bone, the white of lead,
The purity of water in the bowl;
No drop of palm wine must his spirit dread,
Lest shaking hands should mar the growing soul.
If some are born with limbs that are not straight,
They are his children, marked by holy touch;
He guards the humble and the quiet gate,
And does not ask for vanity or much.
Oh, King of Silence, draped in snowy light,
Bring peace to us before the fall of night.
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