Potter-King

My world was always spinning.
Disembodied hands
Pushing, pinching, pulling,
Before I could stand
Always too soft, too spun,
Too broken on the wheel
Of living, moving, having being:
The wound created to heal.

And in every rough-hewn fingerprint
They left behind
Is a tender design,
A spinning whorl of the Divine.

You are the Potter-King;
You waste no clay
On Your spinning wheel.
There has never been a day
You did not care for me;
You’ve had me in Hand.
No turn can change
The work You have planned,

And I am Your poem,
And You are my All.
Shape the pain, shape the day-
I yield to Your call.

Thank You for Your tenderness,
The gentleness in Your craft
Thank You for providing
In every breath I draft
Comfort and companionship.
No one can stop You.
I believe with all that I am
Or may be: You are True.

Your promises are sure
Like the west wind
Collecting afar
And returning again

I don’t know
What You are molding
But I trust Your palm
Inscribed, upholding
You brace my gaps,
And make me whole,
While broken still,
You mend my holes

Oh Great I AM,
The Benevolent
Sculpter of souls.