I am but as clay in the potters hands.
Silently I scream, "Why do you make me this way?"
The potter is quiet, very quiet.
And as I also become quiet, I see
that He is always working the clay -
always working the clay.
As I inspect the vessel,
now I see it being shaped into an image
of unimaginable beauty, an object of honor.
And the Potter cracks a smile.
“...O Lord, thou art our father; we are the clay, and thou
our potter; and we all are the work of thy hand.” Isaiah 64:8
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