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