The POTTER'S Tears
By Mary Carter Mizrany
(Thank you Mary, whoever you are)
On The Potter's wheel I
sat, and felt His mighty touch; I heard my own voice asking Him, Why have You
made me such?
Oh ~ take me quickly from
your wheel, don't mould this vessel more; Have you not chiselled long enough, so
much longer than before.
With every turning of your
wheel, some part of me is changed; And somehow who I used to be, is now all
rearranged.
I felt the
wheel begin to slow, as it came to a halt; What were those last few drops that
fell? ~ they had a taste of salt.
As He
removed me from the wheel, I could not help but see; Those drops were falling
from His eyes, and each one fell on me.
Why was The
Potter crying so? What could have made Him cry? When I felt such a great relief,
to be free ~ or so thought I.
Free from
The Potter's wheel at last, Free from the chisel's pain; A vessel complete from
The Potter's hand, The wheel would not turn me again.
How I did
glisten, He must be proud, to have fashioned a vessel so rare; Surely I'd bring
Him much honour, A treasure beyond all compare.
Such visions
of grandeur filled me, as He placed me on the shelf; I barely noticed His
tear-dimmed eyes, so busy with thoughts of myself.
Merchants
were coming into the place, where we vessels were on display; Surely I'd be the
first to go, Why ~ it had to be that way.
How eagerly
I watched their faces, as they examined us all; Sure enough I was selected, Joy
filled me as I recall.
How could I
know what lay ahead, or what would be expected of me; That day I cried to the
Potter, "From Your wheel please set me free".
I was traded
and sold so many times, filled with every imaginable thing; Finally discarded as
broken and useless, No honour to The Potter did I bring.
Marred on
the outside, scarred from within, I thought of that day long before; when The
Potter's wheel stopped turning, Would I feel His hands no more?
Then
suddenly I felt myself lifted, from out of the refuse pile; By hands that were
somehow familiar, Hands accustomed to handling the fragile.
It was The
Potter who'd made me, How had He known I was here? With love and compassion He
held me, As though I was somehow dear.
How did You
find me? I questioned, And, why would You want me now? I have brought You no
honour, It seems that I just don't know how.
You've
always belonged to me, He said, For in you is part of me; Remember that day you
felt my tears when you thought you should be free?
Those tears
were shed because I knew, the suff'ring you would endure; because you're an
incomplete vessel, Only moulding will make you secure.
Though I
wouldn't go against your will, I knew you'd be willing one day; to be the vessel
I can use, Here, let me show you the way.
You're just
the kind of vessel now, who will fit into my plan; One the world thinks is
useless, for they simply don't understand.
I always
take the foolish things, to confound the very wise; And the vessel thought to be
weakest, I see through much different eyes.
Don't be
afraid of my Potter's wheel, This time it won't seem too long; before you're
that vessel you desired to be, useful, loving and strong.
Oh ~ how
patient The Potter's hands, as he gently turns the wheel; And, strangely it's
not so painful now, His chisel I hardly feel.
One thing is
even more strange to me, it baffles my own mind so; The only places that need no
repair, Are where His tears touch'd long ago.