Winter 1995
The Potter and the Clay
Evelyn Puckett
Pastor, Norfolk, Va.

He cuts and chops and whittles away,
"Ouch" cries the little piece of clay.
But no mercy seems He bestows,
As upon the wheel this wet clay goes.

"Now why must I go round and round?
I'm getting dizzy, please let me down."
But with His hands so firm, yet gentle,
The Potter shapes this human vessel.

A light touch here, some pressure there,
No need to worry, you're in His care.
"Oven ready?" the Potter cries,
"Slip this piece of clay inside."

"Inside an oven must I go?
Oh God, why must it be so?"
I yell and scream and question why,
But He doesn't seem to hear my cry.

"I think He's looking - Yes it's He,
Maybe at last I will be free."
His gentle eyes scan o'er my surface,
"Not ready yet for what I've purposed."

But finally when I can't endure,
He comes and opens up the door.
The Potter knows what I can take,
He made the clay, not a mistake.

In His hands I'm free at last,
No, just ready for the second blast.
A little paint comes here and there,
But the pain He cannot spare.

A second time around we go,
"My, this process seems so slow."
The fire burns and my heart aches,
"Oh God, the pain I cannot take."

He listens to my fading plea,
"Just mercy Lord, I ask of Thee.
I feel like I am going to die."
"That's what I'm after, is His cry.