The Creator of Color is Color Blind

The Creator of color is color blind,
He sees not the various tones of flesh,
But looks at the heart to see its condition.

The Sculptor of features is featureless,
He cares not about appearances,
But looks to see the beauty with in the heart.

The Giver of Knowledge is not educated,
He cares not about educational degrees,
But looks at the wisdom in life applied.

The Provider of wealth does not see dollar signs,
He sees not economic status of rich or poor,
But looks for the cheerful giver exemplified.

The Breath of Life had no social status,
He cares not about pleasing the masses,
But looks for His love personified.
The Creator of Color is Color Blind/Page 2/Rye
The Inspiration of thoughts has no prejudices,
He cares not of these kinds of opinions,
But looks for the washing of feet and the mending of wounds.

When all is said and all is done,
What He will ask is… Do you know my Son?

So instead of wasting your time with these things,
Surrender your vision to become colorblind.
Ask for God’s common sense—wisdom applied,
Give all you can and then give some more,
Focus on the one who needs you more,
And when your thoughts dwell where they should not,
Put perspiration to work kneeling before Him,
By serving a friend and a foe again and again and again!

May the LORD Jesus Christ make this true in you,
this is my prayer and heart cry tonight!

Written By: Tara Rye
April 12, 2002, 3:00 am

The Potter's Touch

Precious Potter,
Spinning the earth on her axis as Your hands move about
I praise Your Holy Name for this I do shout!
You are my Father, that handles the clay.
The movement of Your hands blesses me every day.
Lumpy, I may be as You kick the wheel to spin.
Moving me dizzily forward, to become something from within.
The wetness of Your hands soothes my dry form,
Melting away my brittleness, as I begin to take form.
The slight movement of Your thumb, begins to define my shape.
As I grow taller in Your guidance, for this is what You make.
Another kick at the wheel takes me to higher heights,
As the palm of Your hand envelopes me and holds me just right.
As shards of me stick out, You apply Your faithful touch,
Using the tools needed to scrape them off with precision as You clutch.
What do I feel like in Your hands, Dear Potter?
Is my clay soft to touch? Am I yielding to Your measure?
Pliable and such?

I am so glad You are the Potter and I am the clay.
Mold me and make me... This is what I pray!

Tara Rye/ Copyright 2006