The Fingerpaint Life

The boy he had a cross-shaped stamp
Filled with ink inside.
He used his cross-stamp everyday,
And cared for it with pride.



He would stamp everything he did,
With the symbol his stamp produced.
Until one day his precious stamp,
His precious stamp, it…
Broke.

The ink, ran over the paper,
The stamp was useless now.
He had to send his message still,
But with all this mess, well, how?

The boy sat still, and staring.
At the problem before him.
And slowly his hand moved forward,
With a deep-joy, kind of grin.

His fingers touched the spilt blue ink
And began to swirl around.
Before he knew it, what lay there?
On the page he found…

A cross, a cross, so beautiful,
With swirls springing from the mess.
It was the same, but meant so much more,
Than what he’d called before, “success.”

And what- near the end of each swirl of blue,
What was that he now saw?
His very own fine fingerprints,
He then sat back in awe

With hands held up he saw his fingerTIPS,
Blue from the art he had made.
This gift he was about to give,
Was on himself displayed.

He’d never done something like this before,
The note he wrote that day,
Was the first note he ever wrote to God,
It said, “God, I just wanted to say…”

“To say, ‘Thank You.’” Yes.
That’s all it really said,
And where he’d usually stamp his stamp,
Was a fingerprint cross instead.

He sent the note to Jesus,
He sent it that same day,
And when he washed his hands that night,
The blue began to fade.

He decided then that, to remember,
He would paint frequently.
Not with brushes, or with stamps,
But with his fingers, personally.