You ask me who I am,

And I reply, "Clay in The Potter's hands."

Those skillful hands, forming for some vast eternal plan.

A plan no lump of clay may know.

When He took me from the mire.

I had no power,

His will alone had control.

He placed me on His wheel,

And claimed me for His own.

Now under His hands I spin.

Like thixotropic clay, I am rebellious to His way,

But under the workings of His hands,

I become soft and yield to His demands.

His pinching and shapings aren't always gentle.

Often He reworks my hardened clay.

Yet like a patient artist He contunues,

Working until the final day.