Poetry

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Can the clay tell the potter, what to make of them
Does it dare inquire, of him at all
Can they tell God what they choose to be
when it's much better to heed the call
He starts us off from just a clump
working on us, from day to day
Molding and making us, like fine silver
fashioning each of us, in his own way
He takes his time to clear away the lumps
shaping the image for his purpose and desire
Smoothing the surface of every little bump
so to be prom and fit, for the masters hire
Every little dent will need his attention
well grooved and all panned out
and his work is proved by patience and care
Leaving no room for the clay to ever doubt
that the potter has control from head to toe
and he knows what to do and how
and as his hands of love fulfills it's job
The clay accepts it with a praise and a bow
So O' clay be still and let God work
let him make you what he wants you to be
Now just be patient and let him have his way
for that is what it will take for you and me

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