Cold hard lump of terra cotta colored clay warms and
begins to bend to the command of his hand.
He rolls, pinches, squeezes, entices it to form to his will
until his heart is satisfied and his hand falls still.
He looks lovingly at the clay his hand has urged,
from a useless lump a beautiful masterpiece emerged.
The worthless forever formed by his hand into priceless treasure
as it responded and obeyed the potter’s will and pleasure.
He fires it hot to ensure that it will hold fast its form
through sunshine, rain or violent storm.
But now, Oh Lord, you are our Father, we are the clay and you are our potter; and all of us are the work of your hand. ~Isaiah 64:8