The Sculptor


"Yet, O LORD, thou art our Father; we are the clay, and thou art our potter; we are all the work of thy hand." 1

From Stone to Clay

Exhausted from the daily grind,
My spirit's parched from desert heat;
I'm numb in both my heart and mind:
I fall, collapsing at Your feet.

In silencing my clamoring,
You still the sand that blasts my soul;
My heart softens its stammering:
Peace comes when I'm in Your control.

"Be still and know I am your God;
Lord of your troubles and your woe.
These sharpened stones on which you trod,
Will strengthen you and help you grow.

Love is the law which I uphold;
The self is conquered by the cross.
You're forged by passion in this mold
Of Love's new life: diamonds from dross!"

Lord, grant me true docility:
To be soft clay within Your hand;
To bow with love, not enmity;
To do Your will without demand.

The Sculptor works with clay and stone:
The soft He shapes; the hard He'll hone.



(c) Paul Buis, 2000

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1. Isaiah 64: 8