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