Your palm plucked my soul from the earth,
a fist of soil studded in stones.
In rubble of days You found worth,
Your breath kindles these brittle bones.
Your fingers braid to form a sieve
to strain purity from the mud,
And when my lips part I believe,
You lathered the dirt in your blood.
Black grime sifting through gaping holes,
where nails gnawed through the Living Bread,
piles into a pliable shape
when softened by the color red.
Raw clay centered on spinning wheel
of Living Word to wither flesh,
Your promise makes my beauty reel
when body, mind, and spirit mesh.
Your thumb presses a supple dent,
an empty cavern in my soul,
that leaves Your loving fingerprint,
a womb where Your Spirit can grow.
Refining fire blows inside
with a healing vermillion breeze.
It chars the toxins from my pride
and fans me gently to my knees.
When spinning days blur into nights
and my soul is dizzy with fear,
Your Holy Word my heart recites
and hope is shaped from crimson tear.
Though wheel whirls in revolution
and emptiness fills this vessel,
in the center of confusion
You whisper to me, Peace be Still.
You place me gently to cement
upon the rock of salvation.
Anoint me with a sweet rose scent
that will linger though the nation.
Your spirit slides down angel wings
to fill this fossil from Your hands
And spills from a bubbling spring
to splash Your blood in thirsty sands.
When red sun shuts its black lashes
and basin models as an urn,
You pluck beauty from these ashes
and in Your palm my soul returns.
Yet, O LORD, You are our Father.
We are the clay, You are the potter;
We are all the work of Your hand.
The opinions expressed by authors may not necessarily reflect the opinion of FaithWriters.com.
Accept Jesus as Your Lord and Savior Right Now - CLICK HERE
JOIN US at FaithWriters for Free. Grow as a Writer and Spread the Gospel.