Pottery

Kristen suggested I submit this to a literary magazine. I looked it up, and while cleaning it up some, I realized that it really answered well the questions that I had posed in Questions. But in a completely different way.

Constructing clay is patient work
Not too little or too much pressure
on the earthy wet
And you cannot rush
Else your work will collapse.

Carry clay with caution
lest it break
or lest it crumble.

Fragile clay are we
Patient, gentle hands has He.

Pulled up and formed,
by repeated
gentle strokes
into something of beauty,
balanced perfectly.

He adds water
with age-old skill
until
we’re damp enough to form
but not to fall
dry enough to hold His shape,
but not enough to crumble.
While we He carries to and fro,
we know He will not stumble.

Fragile trust have we
Faithful, caring love has He.

We’re given time to dry
before we’re put into the fire
And when He knows we can’t go on
Sometimes,
He stops the wheel
to let us toughen up.

Every detail molded carefully
Imprinted by His hands so gloriously.

If we are on the wheel,
we do not know it then
Or in the fire,
either,
only when
His work’s complete and done.

Mournful, broken tears have we
Gracious arms of love has He.

The molding and the flames
always hurt so much more
While we know not their names nor task.
And as He molds us skillfully
with practiced hands –
The work’s best done
when we don’t understand.

Foot on the pedal, He spins us round
‘til we are dizzy
and confused
but He has found
we have the shape
He willed.

His fingers hold our front and back
Receding all our pride
This treasure we have in jars of clay
shows this power
is not mine.

Drossy gold are we
Refining flames has He.

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