I know the clay has no right to say
Why the Potter shaped it some particular way.
Yet I cannot help but wonder
And so, I sit, I cry, I question, I ponder…
Why did the Potter make me so–
Prone to anxiety,
Easily swept by pride,
Overcome with feelings so deep,
So shy and awkward,
And easily afraid?
Susceptible to crippling doubts,
My hope is that these things aren’t me.
That these things are not the end of the story He wrote for me.
That these things may somehow be used to glorify Him,
As he skillfully shapes this lump of clay with a plan and not on some whim.
That He won’t abandon this mess I’m in,
And that He sees a brighter future, not just where I’ve been.
That His hands will shape, trim, and cut when needed,
And that He won’t leave me uncompleted.
That I will not be burned up in that fiery kiln,
But that he will take away all my burdens and sin within.
That the vessel that comes out is beautiful and purposeful,
Pointing to the Maker and His grace so bountiful.
That I am a creation being created,
Now and for all my days that He allocated.