A golden path
stretched out before me
the walkway to my home.
I painted it so,
as a way to bring heaven
to my place on earth.
It seems absurd,
does it not,
to think I could capture,
that I could manufacture
a slice of the Kingdom
here in this place.
“The Kingdom of God,”
you said,
“is within you, is at hand.”
It is more than outward appearance
a work of your hand not mine.
It is not made by me
but yet flows out of me
as I allow you to use me
to brush gold onto the heart
of those around me.
I am brush, not painter.
I am the instrument not the architect.
I must first see in me
the peace of heaven 
you have placed there,
then I am ready
to be for you what others need from you.

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