AND WHO AM I TO ARGUE WITH THE POTTER?
Did He not form me of soil and water,
Shape me on the ever-spinning wheel,
And then deck me with designs,
Temper me in His fires,
And breathe on me cool air?
Are there not vessels more comely,
More holy, more exalted than I?
Are some filled with lovely wines
Or honey-bursting pears,
While some know vinegar and gall?
Will I, with a fatal flaw in my glaze,
Shatter into a thousand shards
When life’s tempers cast me down,
Or will He hold me high, treasured,
A work of art ennobled by all?
Only the Potter knows his own purpose;
So I hold His spirit in all of my uses.
Be I beggar’s bowl or cup to a king,
Whether weakened or hardened, or fractured with sin,
I am always His own and restored in His care.