A lump of clay became a man,
Fitting for the Creator's plan.
I, too, am clay. My life He holds,
With gentle hands, He shapes and molds.
I smugly wait, the pressure's kind,
His hands have stopped! What did He find?
A piercing shard, like splintered glass,
An attitude before me flashed.
Quickly, Father, wash me,do--
Lest I pierce Your hands anew.