Discussion in 'Spirituality/Worship' started by deecrossett, Jan 7, 2003.

  1. deecrossett

    deecrossett New Member


    On The Potter's wheel I sat
    And felt His mighty touch.
    I heard my own voice asking Him,
    "Why have You made me such?

    Oh, take me quickly from your wheel.
    Don't mold this vessel more.
    Have you not chiseled long enough,
    So much longer than before?"

    With every turning of your wheel,
    Some part of me is changed,
    And, somehow, who I used to be
    Is now all rearranged."

    I felt the wheel begin to slow,
    As it came to a halt.
    What were those last few drops that fell?
    They had a taste of salt.

    As He removed me from the wheel,
    I could not help but see,
    Those drops were falling from His
    Eyes and each one fell on me.

    Why was the Potter crying so?
    What could have made Him cry
    When I felt such a great relief
    To be free, or so thought I?

    Free from The Potter's wheel at last,
    Free from the chisel's pain,
    A vessel, complete, from The Potter's hand;
    The wheel would not turn me, again.

    How I did glisten. He must be proud
    To have fashioned a vessel so rare.
    Surely, I'd bring Him much honor,
    A treasure beyond all compare.

    Such visions of grandeur filled me,
    As He placed me on the shelf.
    I barely noticed His tear dimm'd eyes,
    So busy with thoughts of myself.

    Merchants were coming into the place,
    Where we, vessels, were on display.
    Surely, I'd be the first to go.
    Why, it had to be that way.

    How eagerly I watched their faces,
    As they examined us all.
    Sure enough, I was selected.
    Joy filled me, as I recall.

    How could I know what lay ahead
    Or what would be expected of me
    That day I cried to the Potter,
    "From Your wheel please set me free"?

    I was traded and sold so many times,
    Filled with every imaginable thing;
    Finally discarded as brok'n and useless.
    No honor to the Potter did I bring.

    Marred on the outside, scarred from within,
    I thought of that day, long before,
    When The Potter's wheel stopped turning.
    Would I feel His hands no more?

    Then, suddenly, I felt myself lifted
    From out of the refuse pile,
    By hands that were somehow familiar;
    Hands accustom'd to handling the fragile.

    It was The Potter who'd made me.
    How had He known I was here?
    With love and compassion He held me,
    As though I was, somehow, dear.

    "How did You find me," I questioned?
    "And, why would You want me, now?
    I have brought You no honor.
    It seems that I just don't know how."

    "You've always belonged to me," He said.
    "For, in you is part of me.
    Remember that day you felt my tears,
    When you thought you should be free?

    Those tears were shed because I knew
    The suff'ring you would endure,
    Because you're an incomplete vessel.
    Only molding will make you secure.

    Tho' I wouldn't go against your will,
    I knew you'd be willing, one day,
    To be the vessel I can use.
    Here, let me show you the way.

    You're just the kind of vessel, now,
    Who will fit into my plan;
    One the world thinks is useless.
    For, they, simply, don't understand.

    I always take the foolish things
    To confound the very wise
    And the vessel, thought to be weakest,
    I see through much different eyes.

    Don't be afraid of my Potter's wheel.
    This time, it won't seem too long
    Before you're that vessel you desired
    To be, useful, loving and strong."

    Oh, how patient the Potter's hands,
    As he gently turns the wheel,
    And, strangely, it's not so painful, now.
    His chisel I hardly feel.

    One thing is even more strange to me.
    It baffles my own mind so.
    The only places that need no repair,
    Are where His tears touch'd long ago.

    © 1984 by Mary Carter Mizrany