Potter’s Hands



Wait on Me.

The slow drum of fingers on my soul,

feather touches,

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,

this powdered,

humbled stone,

made living with living water,

made to grow with abundant grace,

falling out,

falling open,

no faster than guided,

lest cracking and collapsing ensue.


very soon,

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,



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