Stories of my life and record of my thoughts done in poetic form.
Friday, April 1, 2016
The potter approaches his bench,
Taking a lump of clay,
He slams it hard against the surface. Oh pain? Did I really volunteer for this?
The preparation has begun.
The clay must be smooth
To take form and survive the firing.
So as, as he stretches, cuts, and pounds, I complain, bemoan, then finally, submit in faith,
To be worked, shaped by the vision, of the Master Potter