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He fashioned you from the finest clay,
Icy dews from sanctified springs.
Unsparing with the sun’s nectar,
He poured it when the earth was new.
You were made, oh Ancient of Days,
By a mighty hand and fearful eye.
The Master truly owned that title then,
Commanding his craft with deific zeal.
But divinity is no assurance of fervor.
Made weary by the mire of human creation,
Hands once so sprightly are wrought with palsy.
Eyes once so keen sputter and wane.
Still you stand a matchless testament to his artistry,
While the rest of humanity ...