With Pen and Little Wit

I set my pen to paper
To sketch the face of God
To trace his rocky lines
And fingers made of pine
But my pen won't move an inch
And my paper stays the same
And this way it shall stay for
An undetermined time
I'm only left to play
The feeble part of mime
And read some dreary words
Of old and bygone times
Just remember this young face
Grows older all the time
Oh, but while I moved a moment
Trace
I've made a crooked line
Could be the smile
Or a wrinkle caused by my
Unworthy shaky hands
Not meant to understand
How time bends under
Such command.
So still I sit with pen and little wit
To capture forms beginning
Please some one come and tell me
That I should up and quit.