The Potter and the Clay
Thou, Thou art the Potter, and we are the Clay,
And morning and evening, and day after day
Thou turnest Thy wheel, and our substance is wrought
Into form of Thy will, into shape of Thy thought.
Thou, Thou art the Potter, the wheel turns around,
Thine eyes do not leave it. Our atoms are ground
Fine, fine in Thy mills. O the pain and the cost!
Thou knowest their number; no one shall be lost.
Should Clay to the Potter make answer and say,
“Now what dost Thou fashion?” Thy hand would not stay.
Untiring, resistless, without any sound,
True, true to its Master, the wheel would go round.
How plastic are we as we lie in Thy hands;
Who, who like the Potter the Clay understands?
Thy ways are a wonder, but oft, as a spark,
Some hint of Thy meaning shines out in the dark.
What portion is this for the sensitive clay!
To be beaten and molded from day unto day,
To answer not, question not, just to be still,
And know Thou art shaping us unto Thy will.
This, this may we plead with Thee, workman divine:
Press deep in our substance some symbol of Thine,
Thy name or Thy image, and let it be shown
That Thou wilt acknowledge the work as Thine own.
Thou, Thou art the Potter, and we are the Clay,
And morning and evening, and day after day
Thou turnest Thy wheel, and our substance is wrought
Into form of Thy will, into shape of Thy thought.
Thou, Thou art the Potter, the wheel turns around,
Thine eyes do not leave it. Our atoms are ground
Fine, fine in Thy mills. O the pain and the cost!
Thou knowest their number; no one shall be lost.
Should Clay to the Potter make answer and say,
“Now what dost Thou fashion?” Thy hand would not stay.
Untiring, resistless, without any sound,
True, true to its Master, the wheel would go round.
How plastic are we as we lie in Thy hands;
Who, who like the Potter the Clay understands?
Thy ways are a wonder, but oft, as a spark,
Some hint of Thy meaning shines out in the dark.
What portion is this for the sensitive clay!
To be beaten and molded from day unto day,
To answer not, question not, just to be still,
And know Thou art shaping us unto Thy will.
This, this may we plead with Thee, workman divine:
Press deep in our substance some symbol of Thine,
Thy name or Thy image, and let it be shown
That Thou wilt acknowledge the work as Thine own.
And morning and evening, and day after day
Thou turnest Thy wheel, and our substance is wrought
Into form of Thy will, into shape of Thy thought.
Thou, Thou art the Potter, the wheel turns around,
Thine eyes do not leave it. Our atoms are ground
Fine, fine in Thy mills. O the pain and the cost!
Thou knowest their number; no one shall be lost.
Should Clay to the Potter make answer and say,
“Now what dost Thou fashion?” Thy hand would not stay.
Untiring, resistless, without any sound,
True, true to its Master, the wheel would go round.
How plastic are we as we lie in Thy hands;
Who, who like the Potter the Clay understands?
Thy ways are a wonder, but oft, as a spark,
Some hint of Thy meaning shines out in the dark.
What portion is this for the sensitive clay!
To be beaten and molded from day unto day,
To answer not, question not, just to be still,
And know Thou art shaping us unto Thy will.
This, this may we plead with Thee, workman divine:
Press deep in our substance some symbol of Thine,
Thy name or Thy image, and let it be shown
That Thou wilt acknowledge the work as Thine own.
Thou, Thou art the Potter, and we are the Clay,
And morning and evening, and day after day
Thou turnest Thy wheel, and our substance is wrought
Into form of Thy will, into shape of Thy thought.
Thou, Thou art the Potter, the wheel turns around,
Thine eyes do not leave it. Our atoms are ground
Fine, fine in Thy mills. O the pain and the cost!
Thou knowest their number; no one shall be lost.
Should Clay to the Potter make answer and say,
“Now what dost Thou fashion?” Thy hand would not stay.
Untiring, resistless, without any sound,
True, true to its Master, the wheel would go round.
How plastic are we as we lie in Thy hands;
Who, who like the Potter the Clay understands?
Thy ways are a wonder, but oft, as a spark,
Some hint of Thy meaning shines out in the dark.
What portion is this for the sensitive clay!
To be beaten and molded from day unto day,
To answer not, question not, just to be still,
And know Thou art shaping us unto Thy will.
This, this may we plead with Thee, workman divine:
Press deep in our substance some symbol of Thine,
Thy name or Thy image, and let it be shown
That Thou wilt acknowledge the work as Thine own.
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