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.

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.

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.