He is the Potter,
We, the yielding clay,
Drawn from the miry depths,
Shaped in His perfect way
Sculpted by hands divine,
Crafted with care untold,
Every curve and line refined,
In beauty’s purest mold
With boundless grace, He frames our form,
No flaws within His sight,
Imbued with endless possibilities,
A vessel of His light
Yet we—
Are we not the weavers of our woes?
The architects of tangled throes?
Searching high and far, we stray,
For treasures close, yet cast away
We complicate the road we tread,
Unravel paths His wisdom led,
Claiming a throne not ours to bear,
Ignoring the love already there
But now, O Lord, we pause, we see,
You are our Father, shaping us.
The clay, the Potter’s gentle hand,
Your work, we stand, by grace we stand…
Selah [Think on these things]…