The Potter’s Work

To the tune WINCHESTER NEW (“On Jordan’s Bank”):

As clay within the potter's hand,
so are we, Lord, within your pow'r:
each one a vessel you have planned
and labor on by hour and hour.

Whatever shape shall please you, Lord,
we take but by your touch alone,
and oh! the work is long and hard
'til we into your way have grown.

Yet, Potter, still you stoop and shape
the clay you laid upon your wheel.
Your artistry, the care you take,
your handiwork on earth reveals.

And this we see in every work,
in every vessel you create:
indelibly your maker's mark
is written into every shape.

And as the earth beneath us spins,
your touch is on us ever, Lord.
Each turn a rising day begins
wherein you shape us more and more.

Then mold us, fill us with your breath,
nor stop until you stop the wheel.
Until the moment of our death,
Lord, keep your hand upon us still!

A potter at work in Morena, India By This file is not in the public domain. Therefore you are requested to use the following next to the image if you reuse this file: © Yann Forget / Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=9589472

Pottery II

Last week, I shared a draft and asked for feedback. Today, I offer you the rewrite:

We each are made by loving hands,
the earth a potter's wheel
where shapes of clay and colored sands
their maker's love reveal.
In simple figures or in grand,
each bears the maker's seal
before whose loving eyes we stand
and fall and break and heal.

The Lord, whose making is delight,
takes joy in what was made,
as at the earliest break of light
God on the waters played.
So when our shards we reunite
that in the dust were laid,
we see the gentle maker's might
as we are thus remade.

For Christ himself was shattered, too,
and laid among the dead
to rise again, made whole and new
but scarred where he had bled.
Your wounds he will not now undo,
but with the blood he shed
his mended vessel make of you
to hold his broken bread.

Repair work (right) on Mishima ware *hakeme*-type tea bowl with *kintsugi* gold lacquer, 16th century (Ethnological Museum of Berlin) Photo by Daderot – Own work, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=45589849

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.