| The Potter's Wheel of Life |
|
I went down to the potter's house And watched him working at the wheel. He settled a lump of clay; Spun by pumping with his heel. He held his hands in a special way. The clay began to form. Before my very eyes, A pot was being born. But, suddenly, he stopped. His hands crushed down the clay. That pot was marred, unfit for use; To be shaped a better way. So, with gentle hands, he formed anew; Moldings, as was best to him. The clay called out, "Make me shapely, please, With ... a contoured rim. I want to be of beautiful art, To be noticed on the shelf; Admired for all I am, Flattered for myself." But, as clay is clay, it has no say; Subject to the potter's voice: Fashioned, by the master's wisdom, For his perfect choice. The muddy clay, so malleable, Yields to the craftsman's skill. Imperfections fade away, His beauty to fulfill. Like clay in the potter's hand, Whatever shape is best, God spins the wheel, while holding tight; Safe in His hands, we rest. Yet Oh Lord, You are our Father, We are the clay, You are the Potter we are all the work of Your hand. Isaiah 64:8 |
| Other poems by Derry A large collection of poems, submitted by Derry |
| The Poem Library Contents Page |