On a humble Saturday morn, beneath the azure sky, The Savior rose with gentle grace, as dawn’s light fluttered by. He donned His simple robes of white, His sandals worn but sure, And stepped into the tranquil day, His heart serene and pure.
With steady hands, He swept the floor, each corner, every nook, A humble act of service, like a page from Heaven’s book. He fetched the water from the well, with strength and loving care, A testament of simple faith, in every task laid bare.
He baked the bread, a fragrant gift, that filled the room with cheer, His spirit in each rising loaf, His presence ever near. He mended nets and fixed the doors, with carpenter’s precision, Each nail a symbol of His love, each plank a firm decision.
In gardens green, He trimmed the vines, and tended to the soil, A steward of creation’s gifts, through honest, holy toil. He sang a hymn of gratitude, His voice both soft and strong, A melody of peace and hope, that lingered all day long.
As evening fell, He set the lamps, their glow a gentle guide, A beacon in the quiet night, where faith and love abide. And as He knelt in whispered prayer, beneath the starry dome, His chores complete, His heart at rest, He found His Heaven’s home.
For even in the simplest tasks, His sacred light did shine, A testament to humble grace, and love so pure, divine. On a humble Saturday morn, beneath the azure sky, The Savior showed that in our work, His spirit lifts us high.