The vessel the potter was making of clay
was spoiled in the potter’s hand,
and the potter reworked it
into another vessel, as seemed good.
center me in the wheel of your grace.
As the world spins around me
lay your strong, wise hands on me.
Cup your creating fingers around me
and draw me up into your image.
Press upon me, steady, firmly;
let me feel you pressing,
let struggle be my making, pain my art,
your thumbprints on my soul, my flesh,
caressed into the shape of you,
molded to your knowing, your delight.
And if I lose the shape you will
smush me down into my lump
and shape me up again, anew, and
unafraid to be so pressed to beauty.
September 5, 2019