Jesus is the Master Potter
By Franklin Price
09/14/2023
Jesus, is the master potter
We, the followers His Clay
He molds us into shining lamps
Reconstructing day by day
He lays His hands upon us
Kneads and shapes us 'til we're done
He is the Master Potter
Who recreates us, He's the one
As cracks appear, remolds us,
Provides our structure with relief
Then fuels us, and lights us
To be His lamps that shine belief
He trims our wicks when needed
To even light the darkest hour
Leading others to salvation
His lamp has given us that power
He adds a globe of glass or crystal
To let the light burn in the wind
To guide lost souls to heaven
For since the garden, all have sinned
He cleans our globes when they have darkened
And our lamps are not as bright
And we doubt that we are able
To shine out believing light
If Jesus had not died for us
On that cross upon the hill
Would be no need to have our lamps
For other's nights, our lights, to fill
My heart is soft like fragile clay
To bend and move within Your hands
Emotions grow, then fade away
As life is changed by Your commands
For You alone, O Potter, can
Make usefulness from my weak clay
From dust and ashes You made man
You made me who I am today
And as You wisely fashion me
And I am changed by what You say
Unchanging truths You show to me
You leave impressions that will stay
And these impressions strengthen me
My clay is hardened–starts to stand
As You continue molding me
How glad am I within Your hand!
So blessed am I to be transformed
Into Your vessel, pure and clean
That all the wonders You preformed
Within me might be clearly seen
A piece of clay spinning around,
Molded by hands of fire and ice,
Shaped into form; tied and bound
By experiences through this vice.
Round and round upon a spin wheel,
Born into centre going fast and slow,
Pieces of clay falling; the bonemeal
picked up and hand built to grow.
Every piece of clay on the slab,
Foot pressing down on pedal and held,
The hands pinch, fold and grab
Molding each into a shape unparalleled.
Potter works tirelessly, but exhausted,
Each mistake, flaw seen by many the few,
Of these to account for all, but costed
Enough and thrown into oven, our debut.
Baked into true form with all on display,
Heat rising and baking; what is shown…
Beautiful pot or broken pieces of clay?
Oven opens, steam rising; a tombstone.
I am the master potter with clay in my hands
I use all my tools and talents to shape what I have
I am the clay in the potter's hands
I can be molded to any shape to fit any purpose
I am the Kiln for that is where I am tempered
and made strong
I am the artwork shaped with meaning and design
when I break that is when my true beauty can shine
Where my cracks and flaws show with gold
I am the master potter with clay in my hands
Clay clamours to potter man:
Too proud, today ye pound me,
A day will one day dawn, when
I’d smother the mortal thee.
__________________________________
mati kahe kumhar se, tu kya raunde moye,
ek din aisa ayega mein raundungi toye.
The wheel of life turns round and round. One day it goes upward and then downward turns. Good and bad tidings alternate. It helps if one bears this in mind. A potter man was preparing his clay for his wheel by crushing it under his feet to smoothen it into a uniform lump. The clay seems to tell him: Today you are stomping me under your feet, but wait, a day is going to come when you would die and get buried under soil. Then, you too would be treated the same way.
Millions of people generated off the same idea,
Just like animals it's hard to be here,
Many live off perception to never see with their eyes,
That's like a name tag to many of us guys,
But listen closely as my words will jump out to ear,
Have you ever wondered why a rat can cause fear,
Something so small yet so much power,
Focused in to survive at least another hour,
That has magic though many don't stop to see,
So next time you curse another try to focus inward instead to be.
I never read fiction, Persnickety told me.
I urged her to read Harry Potter and she laughed.
A kid’s book! I am twenty-six-years old!
You would love it, I said.
I would not, she replied.
Five years later her cats were Hermione and Ron.
Her parrot had been renamed Dumbledore.
And she was making her husband call her Harry.
Did you read the books? I asked her.
Which books?
Harry Potter?
Oh, no, she said. I never read fiction.
Her four-year-old son, Hagrid laughed.
His Word came to him,
To the potter’s house he was asked to go,
At the potter’s house
the message would be delivered,
The Father would speak to him.
The potter’s fingers worked assiduously,
He made and remade,
Until he was satisfied,
The clay and the water stood by,
The Father gave him
a message for His people,
He was displeased with them,
And He needed them to know.
Learning His ways was paramount,
Understanding His thoughts was crucial,
The art of learning,
Fundamental to our ascent,
The art of learning,
His ways are our blueprints.
June 24, 2022.
Amsterdam's Paulus Potter
picturing cattle*no-one was hotter
An expert also at Still Life
a genre at the time most rife
*https://www.wga.hu/html_m/p/potter/paulus/y_bull.html
Sand from backyard,
Landed on potter’s table,
moulded to clay.
Thrown onto his wheel,
Shaped with his hand,
Caressed and tried,
To make something,
From nothing.
His hand, mind everything,
Revolved with the wheel,
To give life to a mere clay.
From the lumps of clay,
Came out a beautiful object
His great art was displayed.
A potter, a chiseler, a sculptor,
Possess great plans.
The beauty they find,
In sand and rock,
Not obvious to others,
Till it takes its form.
We are clay in the hands of our creator,
He continues to mould and shape.
We need to trust and cling to him,
The fate is not ours to choose,
The creator knows what to do.
And what is best for us.
We all have said, we're all dead
When the bible says we're being made.
God, the trustworthy potter
Is making us look better.
What matters most is all about
Giving yourself with no doubt.
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
now there's a man who likes his food
Harry Potter a boy with no real family
Living under his cousin’s stairs, in a closet’s gizzard.
Shunned and shut away as a nambly-pambly
In another world, a known, famous wizard.
Hagrid helps him get to Hogwarts where he meets lifelong friends
Ron Weasley and Hermoine Granger, a muggle-born witch.
Daring escapades and escapes are Rowling's books’ brightest bends.
Harry’s phoenix tail wand is magic with a flick and a switch.
Harry took off on a broom when he was not supposed to yet ride.
Swiftly marched in in by McGonagall, head of the Gyffindor House
Dumbledore names Harry as seeker of the Quidditch Team’s G-side.
I am not going to ruin the rest of the story; I am not a louse.
The sorting hat knew me well.
I had a pet Basilisk and knew where they all dwell.
I speak parcel tongue, but I do not like Malfoy
I am waiting, barely breathing.
The sorting hat is making all kinds of noise, like a raid
Spitting and snorting, I close my eyes, afraid of the result
You hate Malfoy? He screams, outing me in front of the hall.
Hufflepuff? Are you kidding? That was truly a stupid call.
Come back here! The sorting hat demanded, angry now.
I ran for my life, not eager to go back to that cow.
He chases through the hall while the rest of them cheer.
I go home to mama; maybe I will come back next year.
Don’t look in the mirror I cautioned myself
As if a basilisk was going to paralyze me at any second
I have read of them, and they eat mammals.
I wondered if this one would have to cut me up first
I am pretty big to gulp in a few bites.
Or will his teeth chop me up in a satisfactorily way?
Give me that mandrake root, I told my nine year old cousin. Just in case.
He was terrified. He had just finished reading two Harry Potters.
I loved it that I could use his fear to keep him silent and compliant.
I am evil that way.
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