The Potter’s Hands


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My life was like a lump of clay upon the Potter’s wheel—
No skill had I to shape myself, nor power to fight His will.

I knew His plan was for my good; I knew His hands were skilled;
I knew He promised joy and peace, so I resolved to yield.

But when the Potter’s hands began to poke, and rub, and press,
To twist my form and change my shape, I cried out in distress,

“Why must Your hands inflict such pain? Would love deal thus with me?
I thought the hands I yielded to would kind and gentle be!

If thus I must continue on, my fainting heart must know:
What proof is there that I should trust the hands that hurt me so?”

Without a word the Potter rose and stretched to me His hands;
It only took one look at them to silence my demands!

I still don’t know just why He chose this ugly lump of clay,
Nor what He forms, as on His wheel I spin from day to day.

Nor can I fully reconcile the goodness of His plan
With all the pain and loss I’ve felt since He His work began.

Yet in my heart is perfect peace, for there this memory stands:
The hands with which the Potter works are love-scarred, nail-pierced hands!

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