Upon the wheels it turned and turned—
The marred-up piece of clotted clay;
Beneath the hand that pressed and burned
With diverse touches day by day.

Upon the stool he sat and sat—
The Potter in the potter’s house;
A quiet, patient, Sovereign act
To shape that clod and smooth its doubts.

“This marred-up clay... this stiffened piece,”
The Potter to himself then said;
“I cannot to my plan release—
Its stubborn flesh is not yet dead.”

Up stood the Potter, strong and tall,
That ugly clot clasped in his hand;
“A desperate fate you shant befall—
My vessel—if you’ll just withstand.”

So straightway crushed between his palm
The Potter’s hand that clod of earth,
“Cannot I do with thee and calm
Thy stubborn heart, O child of worth?

“I have made, and I will carry,
Thou fearful lump that writhes and kicks;
I will bear the wounds you burry
If you’ll resist no more the pricks.”

That stiffened clump, it softened then
Upon the wheels that turned and turned,
Beneath the Hand that moulds all men
Who let their dross by God be burned.

“Ask no more Why,” the Potter said,
“The reason I have made you thus;
Not might, nor pow’r but Spirit led
Will turn hard lumps to hearts of trust.”

CITATIONS:

JEREMIAH 18:1-6; ISAIAH 45:9

ISAIAH 46:4; ACTS 9:5

ZACHARIAH 4:6; EZEKIEL 36:25-28