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?