Clay In the Potter’s Hands: a poem of trust

potters hands

I am but clay in the potter’s hands, a mass amongst many in the workshop of life. Formless and shapeless, no use or demands, simple and naive, unfamiliar to strife. To my left rest many, resembling me, but they’re hardened and drying, crumbling in state. Though the potter offers moisture, graciously free, they progressively resist, Read More