I’m in the hands of the Potter:
My life was useless clay,
Until His gentle hands took me
From the storage room that day.
He took this hardened lump of dirt
And squeezed again and again;
I really did not know Him then
Or what was in His plan.
And when my heart was ready –
My will and life would yield
To the hands of the Perfect Potter –
He took me to His wheel.
I could not see what His eyes saw,
To me, this lump was a mess;
What could He possible do with it?
I am clay – no more, no less.
But He proved me wrong upon His wheel,
For as He pressed this clay,
I became just what He planned for me –
Complete in Him that day.
My clay is now His vessel;
He uses it as He wills.
My life – His plan, My will in His hand:
Perfected upon His wheel.
“…as the clay is in the potter’s hand, so are ye in mine…”