In the Potter's Hands

By Charlotte

He is the Potter, I am the clay,
Gently He molds me, day after day.

Patiently pressing, firm in His hand,
Sculpting my life, as only He can.

Adding the water, dripped from His word,
Bathed in His presence, a place where He’s heard.

Sunrise to sunset, wheel turning round,
Each touch of His hand, a lesson is found.

Rising and falling, changing my form,
In this earthen vessel, new life is born.

Placed in the fire, through heat now made strong,
To wait for His timing, He knows just how long.

Till no more impurities, hide in the clay,
And things that once hindered, are moved from the way.

To one day stand finished, as a beautiful pot,
Content in His methods, though not what I sought.

In the beginning, I pictured myself,
A lovely tall vase, to sit on the shelf.

But His plans were different-the floor was my seat,
A useful wash basin, placed at His feet.