The Master’s Hands
By Steven Bates 3 May 2023
How happy then, wet clay must be
Within the potter’s hands
To be molded, shaped, so carefully,
For the potter understands
That within this lump of clay there lies
A creation none can see
But somehow thru the potter’s eyes
There’s beauty naturally
He molds, caresses, shapes the clay
To bring out what it conceals
And somehow, by the end of day
Its beauty, he reveals
So we should be just like that lump
Knowing treasure lies within
Regardless if we’re in a slump
It’s the Master’s hands we’re in.
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