A lump of clay— formless, shapeless
Devoid of any loveliness,
To darkened eyes no usefulness
For this muddy miry mess;
The Potter has a different view
He sees beyond this blob of goo,
Knows what it can be made into—
A special work He loves to do.
He fashions it with utmost care
Into a vessel rich and rare
A work unique without compare
Fit for King and Kingdom’s Heir.
Each handmade work of art now stands
As testament to skilful hands
Which fashioned into something grand
A lump of clay once worthless, damned.