The Portrait

As I was strolling in a fair,
I saw an aged man,
Who sat upon a little chair,
With pencil in his hand.

A line of people stood beside,
While he sat and drew,
A portrait of a pretty girl
(Someone I wished I knew).

How quick he sketched the lines that made,
A picture of her face;
His eyes and fingers moved with speed,
And mysterious grace.

I stopped and watched till he finished,
(And till she smiled goodbye),
And then I went along my way,
With a thoughtful eye.

I pondered on the gifts that God,
Has given to each one;
But oh, what riches are ours since,
He gave His only Son.

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