The 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,
Moulding, 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,
Now subject to the potter's voice,
Fashioned by the master's wisdom
For his perfect choice.
The muddy clay made malleable,
Yields to the craftsman's skill.
Imperfections fade away,
His beauty to fulfil.
Like clay within the potter's hand,
The form He deems as best,
God spins the wheel, while holding tight
in His hands,
we rest.

Soft Whispers from
Derry's Heart Poems © 2003

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.....

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