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!