A lump of clay is placed upon the wheel;
Initially it could be anything.
The fingers of the potter mould and feel,
And gradually the end result begins
To take its shape. But beautiful or plain,
This is the potter’s choice and not the clay’s.
If it goes wrong, the potter starts again,
Has no-one else to take the blame or praise.
Dumb clay cannot complain, or even speak:
So if God is the Potter to our clay,
Are we completely helpless, silent, weak?
Or, once created, can we dare to say
What’s on our mind, and try to understand
How free will complements the Potter’s hand?
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