When he spoke about the future he spoke like a man whose feet had stepped in it. His was not an expensive suit parade. When he spoke of art he spoke with conviction mixed with love. He saw beauty too great for words so he birthed it with the strokes of his brush on canvas. Stroke by stroke he painted his faith to life, stroke by stroke he etched hope on the steep cliffs of the mountain of faith he had.When faithlessness was glamorous and the hunger for money drove hordes into ditches of pride and depression he let his faith stand looming and strong he let its roots wander deep into a God he had never seen.

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