Isaiah 64:8
Yet, O LORD, you are our Father. We are the clay, you are the potter; we are all the work of your hand.
The potter eyed the clay curiously
He thought to himself furiously
What will this lump of clay become?
The world his spinning potter’s wheel
The pot’s holes and cracks made it real
The potter already loved the creation to come.
Sure, the clay would fall
Yes, it would definitely appall
It would be like a sheep: witless and dumb
But the potter, his creation adored
Even when its acts he abhorred
Even when it couldn’t remember where it was from
The pot became cracked and broken
But the potter didn’t destroy the existence he’d spoken.
He still found a use for the thing whose difference outweighed its sum.
No comments:
Post a Comment