Ugly and
dirty, unpromising stuff; he took it, and washed it till he’d got enough
To finish the
task he’d set for the day.
His foot was
steady, his hands were firm, I saw the wheel begin to turn–
Faster and faster,
it spun on its way, then–all of a sudden he threw the clay.
How many years
did it take to learn?
With love and
patience those hands so skilled, shape up the pot that he has willed.
So long ago,
before he began, he had in his mind his own special plan
And now at
last it’s being fulfilled.
He slows down
the wheel, and with fingers neat he places his pot in the infinite heat
Of the oven,
so hot that it tempers the pot
Until tested
and tried his work is complete.
Does the pot
he now holds bring him pleasure? Will it always be something to treasure?
You and I are
God’s clay–will we let Him today
Mould us to
give Him this joy beyond measure?
~ Cilla Watkins
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