Poetry

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In the potters house this clay had went
to get fashioned, by God's hands
It was like, being on a front burner
but,the soul, understands

Now while in there, it sure got hot
as the wheel begin to turn
But, in the right place, to receive more grace
so, the heart said, let it burn

For the beauty of it all, was so marvelous
as he worked and took his time
Trimming and smoothing, every little dent
that his mighty hands could find

This was not a place for sorrows or dread
it was filled with spice's so sweet
For love was spinning me, round and round
although it was under the heat

But this so needed, for this clump of clay
in order for it to come out right
It had to go through some tests and trials
to have more of his light

So as my heart began to seek for wisdom
in what this clay must do
It had to un-cuff, the hands of God
until he says, O' clay I'm through

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