IN life’s deepest sorrow when it seems the pain is too much to bear, the scrapes and bruises and festering wounds, leave a vessel marred until there is no place to go, but back to the Potter’s wheel from which we were made!
Of colored earth, a vessel was made, a piece of clay formed at the potter’s wheel, baking perfect and good.
Taking His paddle with a scoop of earth, tempering on the spinning wheel, the rotating force makes me dizzy with its busy motion. The knife of the potter scrapes the unneeded clay, baking again and sealed once more, a new vessel in the hand of the potter!
Donna's Poetry Blog 