In His Hands

Clay,

limp,

shapeless,

yet with potential.

The Master’s

kind heart,

loving eyes

see what I can become.

Slowly He works,

sculpting,

molding

patiently, so painfully.

At first

I resist—

I cannot see

why or how.

He persists.

He shapes and molds

firmly,

yet somehow gently.

A shapeless lump of

clay

becomes

a masterpiece.