Ah, The Potter

Ah, the potter, he spins His wheel.
He tender strokes a lump of clay.
The firmness of his hands like steel,
He spins and shapes in his own way.

As it turns, his hands feel a stone.
He stops the wheel to dig it out.
He then begins to smooth and tone -
His mind, those hands, without any doubt.

Soon the shape of beauty comes out,
For the purpose that He intends.
He presses in with both His thumbs.
The shape, it soon transcends for Him.

When all is good, His smile so clear,
He puts His work inside the kiln.
The fire's good to burn out fear.
The dross begone, the beauty's clear.

Trust His process, yes, trust His will.
Yes, trust the Lord, this Potter's Him.
The work is His, be very still.
For God's at work, so let Him trim.

This poem was a finalist in the April 2023 poetry contest