I arose and went down where the potter I found,
Quietly spinning his wheel.
With determined passion, those skilled hands did fashion,
A vessel shaped by his will.
He personally sought the clay that was brought,
He dug each piece from the earth.
His heart had designed it before his hands mined it,
His handprints gave it true worth.
But the clay was so hard that the vessel was marred.
Surely he’ll throw it away.
But he held it steady until he was ready,
His masterpiece to display.
‘It often takes pressure to mold priceless treasure,’
‘I know how much it can stand.’
‘I’ll press it to make it. The pressure won’t break it.’
‘It’s never out of my hand.’
And then through the clamor I heard a voice stammer,
‘I’m misshapen; worthless, bent.’
‘Such great condescension and patient attention,’
‘Deserves more for what was spent.’
A gracious word spoken consoling the broken,
‘So what? I’ll make you again.’
‘If ever you should slip, I’ll still hold firm my grip,’
‘Willing once more to begin.’
‘Once more around the wheel to bend you to my will,’
‘Once more through the fire you’ll go.’
‘Then beautifully varnished with glory untarnished,’
‘My handiwork you will show.’