The lawnmower and the painting

I just rammed my nose into a lawnmower. Very painful. The handle-bar, specifically. Always the way, I guess – right where you least expect it, there’s a piece of steel.

So here I am, rubbing my aching nose. Pondering...

This...

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A canvas hangs, in an empty room
Waiting in shadows of passers by.
Wishing to tell of more than shadows;
Wanting a lingering eye.

Stark light drowns the faded paint
That time cannot erase,
And jaded lines waver,
On the painting’s pale face.

Would people stop if it were changed,
Or perhaps if more the same
As other works in other rooms
More designed to fame.
Would clicking heels and unturned heads
Notice it not there?
For a painting is but empty space
To those who do not care.

Yet there is one just past the lights,
A faithful looker-on.
Who stays all day just out of sight
And seeks to not compare.
Who never lets the shadows or the
Heels get in the way,
And has unending interest
In the single painting there.

What is it in the work He sees?
In frenzied lines, in broken stokes
And sweat upon the canvas soaked?
Why gaze upon a thing so long
that others never note?

The answer lies not in the work
But in the careful hand
Of the One who looks past unturned eyes,
            For He painted this man.