Wednesday, 21 September 2011

Like the clay in the Potter’s hands

Like a broken piece of pottery I lay
          With pieces scattered all over.
My being drowns in a pool of misery.
My broken spirit vanishes into thin air.
A broken and contrite heart is all I have.
A blot of sin crushes my inmost place.
Pity and Sorrow flood from within.
Guilt hangs like a scotching sun.
My clay feels dehydrated like a sand dune.
As Euthanasia attack my pillar of dust…
          You are proved right!
For like the desert-rain your timing is perfect.
My clay softens in your hands.
You put together my marred pieces; 
          shaping them as seemed best to You.
Like warm butter sliding down a hot toast
          You smoothen all my rough edges.
Again, within the Potter’s House I commit my cause.
          You are proved right!!
For like clay in the Potter’s hands so am I!

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