Your favor now to us, O Savior, send!
Let blessings fall, let Jesus with us stay!
Produce in us, O Lord, the Spirit’s fruit!
And let us work to let you have your way.
If in the word of God we have no root,
And if no prayers ascend throughout the day,
How barren will our souls be at the end!

Please tell why people do not rush to obey
The Lord of lords and King of kings—they fiddle!
No full devotion! They move with feet of clay,
And claim to seek a balance, the perfect middle—
Neither overly wicked nor righteous lives.
The slow to follow Christ—ah! What a riddle!—
Will quickly plead for mercy when He arrives.

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?

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.