Poetry

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Don’t look at my stature, my height or even my color
Don’t judge me by what I look
Don’t misinterpret where I am for who I am
I may not look or dress like it
I am a dirty jar with wine on the inside

I am bruised, battered, beaten and bloodied
I am so disfigured and wounded
I have been slapped and spat on
I don’t even look like a king
I am a dirty jar with healing in my wings

I have been left all alone
Broken because of lack of use
I was the least important
Yet as dirty as I was
I became a vessel of wonder amongst men.

There’s more to what you are seeing
The empty jar became an overflowing jar of oil
And a means to survive
There’s more to what you are seeing
The dirty jar became a jar that holds wine
That was one of Jesus’ first miracles

H Idowu
2002

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