See Notes for potter's terms
and references
My pot is cracked.
The glue won’t stick.
It flies apart in shards.
An ugly mess
of brokenness,
inside a shattered heart.
Inflated dreams
and crazy schemes,
when I my 'self' had thrown.
My brain won’t spark.
My thoughts are dark.
Down endless halls I roam.
Oppressive gloom,
shut in my tomb,
my ‘self’ don’t recognize.
And here, again,
once more I’ve sinned,
but in me Spirit strives.
It calls to Him.
He knows my name.
Remembers, when I can’t.
Then of His own,
He leads me home.
Re-‘news’ my soul again.
Scoops up the lot,
crushes my pot.
He grinds it into dust.
Pours water in,
beats smooth, and then
He forms a ball from mush.
Centered wheel-head,
fly-wheel He treads.
Pan fills with splashing slip.
Skillful hands throw.
Perfect form grows.
Pull, coil, cut, trim and lift.
Shaped in His form,
as if re ‘born’,
resting inside His Grace.
By Master’s hands,
Great Artisan,
He bathes me in rich glaze.
In kiln so hot,
all dross burned off,
remains a dif’rent shape.
Vitrified skin,
Bright, glassy sheen,
nothing now permeates.
Surprised, I find
old scars still line,
Now shining like stained glass!
A masterpiece!
He’s refined me!
Re ‘formed’ all of my past.
He lovingly,
Makes heir of me.
Transmutes my lump of clay.
My pot is whole
My spirit knows
He holds me ‘til that Day.
So until then,
Safe in His hand,
I can’t be snatched away.
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