Pottery

This came out of a writing workshop, much of which stressed writing songs of healing and hope. As I read this one over, it strikes me as very imperfect, but I think I’m too close to it right now to see how to rewrite it. I’m posting it here as an exercise in process: now, anyone can read it with their own critical eye and see what I can’t put my finger on. So if you have any suggestions, lemme have ’em.

We all are made by loving hands,
the earth a turning wheel
where shapeless clays and colored sands
their form and grace reveal.
We rise beneath the years' demands
and hollow gaps conceal
until, complete and whole, we stand
and fall and break and heal.

And as our tender maker first
delighted in our form,
so in remaking, in rebirth,
God's joy in us is shown.
No missing shards, no worthless hurts,
but all will be made known
when, as in heaven so on earth,
we rise to greet the dawn.

Then bring your scars to him who bled,
your cracks to him who broke.
Your doubts and fears were 'round his head
in thorns that bind and choke.
He still delights, as once he played
and first our goodness spoke;
he does not cast off what he made,
but still our name invokes.