Go you down to the potter’s house,
the Lord, he said to me.
Go on down to the potter’s house
and tell me what you see.
I walked to where the potter lived,
saw him sitting at his wheel,
the clay a shapeless formless mass,
its purpose not revealed.
The potter looked and saw my gaze,
He said this is for you.
He tossed the clay on the spinning board;
His aim was deft & true.
He worked upon the whirling shape,
formed it with his hand;
a rimmed plate on a short stem
stood upon the stand.
And then it seemed the whole scene changed,
The potter shone like gold.
He took me in his clay stained hands
and my soul began to mould.
I saw myself begin to change,
I saw my form appear;
a goblet tall with fluted rim,
its purpose bold & clear.
I hold the blood of sin within,
pain of the world to bear.
I pour out wine & water clear
for all to come & share.
I walked away from the potter’s house,
my shoulders bowed with grief.
I know that now within this life
there will be no relief.
I do not know this God of mine,
I do not know His name;
but I know His spirit gives me breath,
and life & love & pain.