When we are the weakest, <br />We are like large lumps of clay, <br />That the potter must tread down, <br />To make his great art for display. <br /> <br />A statue may be chiseled, <br />Out of nothing else but rock. <br />But he who does the chipping, <br />Sees inside what will be wrought. <br /> <br />A sculptor finds great beauty, <br />Not yet obvious to you or me. <br />But he doesn’t stop his whittling, <br />Till the treasure is what you see! <br /> <br />A potter, a chiseler, a sculptor. <br />These things I know I’m not today. <br />But thank you Lord for choosing, <br />And making me Your hunk of clay!<br /><br />Robert Edgar Burns<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-potter-8/
