From My Inbox: The Potter and the Clay

The Potter And The Clay
By Tom Larson

But who indeed are you, a human being, to talk back to God? Will what is made say to its maker,"Why have you created me so?"
Or does not the potter have a right over the clay, to make out of the same lump one vessel for a noble purpose and another for an ignoble one?
Romans 9:20-21

"Use me Potter" said the clay, "may your will I obey...
I can serve you so well underground.
With my friends full of cheer, I'm so comfortable here...
in my warm fellowship deep down."

But the Potter, nothing said, pulled the clay from its bed…
brought it out to be used for his will.
To his workshop he carried, that clay so long buried...
to be shaped by the master's great skill.

"Let me go," said the clay, "for I'd much rather stay...
down below where I'm safe and secure.
For the light is too bright and you don't have the right...
to expect me, these trials, to endure."

But the clay was deformed and softened and torn...
as the Potter's strong hands worked within.
On the wheel it was placed as the Potter erased...
the impurities and stains of sin.

As the Potter's wheel turned, his fingers soft but firm...
began forming the clay inside out.
"Not so fast" said the clay, "If you ask, I will say...
that my shape's much too ugly and stout."

"So what are you making me? I know what I'd rather be...
a wine goblet fit for a queen.
Then all men would praise you, your knowledge and talent too...
when they see how I sparkle and gleam."

But the potter, knowing his trade, and taking the shape that he'd made...
quickly placed it in the kiln's flame.
"I asked you to use me, not afflict and abuse me!"
sobbed the clay, while enduring the pain.

Yet what finally emerged, from the fire that had purged...
a large bowl, smooth, yet toughened by glaze.
With adequate breadth and thick sides of great depth...
to withstand the heat of a blaze.

The bowl then saw clearly that he indeed was loved dearly...
made exactly the way he should be.
So he ceased his complaints, and his selfish restraints...
and made ready to serve gratefully.

The Potter sent his creation to an overseas nation...
where famine stalked a desperate race...
and then the bowl blessed, the Potter's wise thoughtfulness...
when he saw the needy face to face.

So he toiled hard and long, while inside grew a song...
as he saw each new need satisfied...
and he laughed at vain dreams, and the small petty schemes...
for which he once desperately strived.

Many times he was lifted, from a well where he dipped in...
to the life giving water from the depths.
Countless times he was drained, of the life he contained...
by cracked thirsty lips close to death.

And then thin ragged crowds, they, the bowl would surround...
while many a supper he cooked.
For he's no dainty glass, as he'd hoped in years past...
sitting uselessly while admirers looked.

You can find him today in that land faraway...
by a campfire all sooty and dark...
with plenty of chips, cracks and grease drips...
for the years of hard use leave their marks.

But he'll never return, to the comfort he's spurned...
for he learned that joy grows ever sweet...
when serving at last, at his own special task...
that the Potter created him to complete.


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