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