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THE POTTER
A small ball of rather dull looking clay,
A thing you would want to throw away
Until it is placed in the potters hands,
For clay is what he knows and understands
He gets the wheel turning at the right speed,
Water to keep the clay moist he will need,
Then just his hands will guide the clay aright,
See, the clay always yields, doesn’t ever fight.
This clay wants be a vase, he says with a smile,
And that is what the clay will be in a little while,
You can see it make shape as it takes form,
Moulded with skill and hands tender and warm.
There the new vase stands in perfect symmetry,
The potter’s hands have made that vase for me.
Now fired and glazed, the work is complete
And many an admiring glance it does meet.
I thought of my life and the Masters tender hands,
He knows me well, he loves and understands,
Can I be like the clay that the potter does hold,
And be moulded and formed, fit for His fold?
Or am I too stubborn to yield, am not willing
To feel the kind Master’s hands me directing,
If I were the clay in the potters strong hand
Would I warp or crack, on the bad heap land?
Please let me be like the clay that gives in
To the Master’s plan, find what is within,
Be that He wants me to be here on earth,
So I can be both lovely and of great worth.
(Millicent) Ann Margetson July 29, 2002