Tuesday, 30 June 2015

A Poem About Clay

I'm a lump of wet clay and I'm sitting
All alone, ugly and afraid
On a bench in the Great Potter's workshop
My life all before me laid.
All I must do is abandon myself
And give myself up to Him fully
For a lump of wet clay cannot make of itself
Something that brings the Potter joy.
The thing is, my friend, if I put myself in
The hands of the Potter Himself
I lose all control of the path of my life
And so I remain on His shelf.
But the thing that I find is so hard just to do
Will be what's best for me in the end
If I say to the Craftsman, "Come Lord, fashion me"
He'll gently stretch, shape and bend.
Sometimes the process is lavished with tears
And the tools that He uses bring pain
As the Potter makes of a vessel
That will bring glory to His great name.
But, though the process is painful and long
The safest place for that lump of clay
Is in the nest of the hands of the Craftsman
So here in His hands I will stay.
Through this journey I seek not my own glory
I desire that when others look upon me
They exclaim over my beauty, and wondrous design
This points them, not to I, but to He.
written on the 16th of June 2015


  1. Nice poem. Did you write it Bonnie?



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