Wait on Me.
The slow drum of fingers on my soul,
teaching, drawing, spreading,
the secret work in hidden places,
until breathing clay hangs on hands it cannot see,
and flows into a form it has not known,
as it was promised to be,
made living with living water,
made to grow with abundant grace,
no faster than guided,
lest cracking and collapsing ensue.
the Master’s hands shall make the cut,
and lift me up.
The final firing will come,
and I will be stone again,
a perfect piece for his home,