My attic is a wondrous place,
I go there when I can;
I climb the steps and close my door,
I free myself of man.
It's the highest point in my house,
To God, I'm closest there;
I can talk to Him in privacy,
Sing a hymn or say a prayer.
I often get my easel out,
My canvas and my brush;
A picture forms within my mind,
Of forests ... green and lush.
Sometimes I see a tiny bird,
Bathing in a morning's dew,
Or I see a day awakening,
When earth and sky are new.
I find myself excited,
As such scenes go through my mind,
So many lovely things to paint,
Too much for one lifetime.
And yet, up in my attic,
It seems that time stands still;
There is no clock or time piece,
My schedule's at my will.
To paint upon my canvas,
To make my colors true,
I lean upon God's artistry,
On His celestial view.
For who could paint a picture,
Without God's guiding Grace;
For every leaf and blade of grass,
Reveal His loving face.
Like artists through the ages,
Who have never worked alone,
God paints with me, in my attic,
It's like painting in God's home.
