How small we seem in God’s great scheme,
With billions of stars and drops and creatures;
The Creator knows the few he chose,
He sees our feats and fears and features.
The Lord gives plenteous grace and glory—
His grace creates identity,
Removes us from the adversary;
His glory gives purpose we can see,
A work from which we dare not vary—
He’s sun and shield, what repertory!
O Lord, can clay complain to the Potter?
And say, Why did you make me this way?
Why did you treat me in this manner?
Why do I not have the shape or color
Of that beautiful, privileged pot? Why not
A better quality of clay for me?
Of course not! So why do I question
Your wisdom, smolder resentful,
And pout at my defects—‘Poor me!’
I do. You know I do. And still
You work to mold me, ungrateful vessel
That I am. In fear, I wonder:
Might you tomorrow decide to quit,
Abandon this clay, and start anew?
How much we have to learn! — Hard lessons
They must be, for God returns
And again to teach them. So we pray
To be good students, saved from suffering
Repeated pains, for lack of wisdom.
Soon will I leave these limits of body and earth,
Where dreams explode the finite tears and mirth,
To go to less or greater life beyond,
For endless power or a dark eternal bond,
For freedom’s joy, that broad and easy peace,
Or chains of agony’s loss that never cease.
My steps this day, my choices along my path,
Decide my just reward of bliss or wrath.
You’re welcome to use this poem in print, along with proper credits. Online, please link to the page rather than reproducing it.
To hear the Word and never let attention drop,
To change in heart, and leave all damning sins behind,
In faith, immersed and born anew, that saving step;
Do special good to God’s people of spiritual mind,
Let blessings in Christ — and sharing the news — never stop.
When nothing seems to happen, God works still,
When time appears to stop, the Lord still acts,
The emptiness is the moment he can fill,
And knowing he doesn’t rest, I can relax.
The mind boils with brimming thoughts
More than tongue and lips can tell,
More than sharpest conscience can cull,
But one should dominate all the rest,
Until of this the head is full,
And the searching soul knows so well
That Christ is all, and the rest forgets.
He prayed, unsure his words would rise
To heaven. He sowed in doubt, no eyes
To see a harvest. He read the pages
Of Scripture, clouded the God of ages.
Surprised, he saw the walking dead,
The mute speak words, the poor find bread,
Despair embrace hope, the weak become strong —
And he was glad to be proved wrong.
What happens here today the world ignores,
At best, or upon our precious faith it pours
Its scorn and hate — the bread and wine we share,
The blessed Name we call upon in prayer.
This people of love whose holy kiss is true,
Were immersed and washed, in Christ were born anew,
’Tis not by sight they walk that righteous Way,
But hearing God’s faithful promise they obey.
Given a living hope, God’s children charge
Ahead, his power in humble hearts grown large,
The bracing news of Christ their only creed —
Against them, nothing in this world can succeed.