The Potter's Ardor

Hope this one isn't too hard to understand. Go to Romans 9:20 where it says, "Nay but, O man, who art thou that repliest against God? Shall the thing formed say to him that formed it, Why hast thou made me thus?" Add to that a verse like Isaiah 45:9 which says, "Woe unto him that striveth with his Maker! Let the potsherd strive with the potsherds of the earth. Shall the clay say to him that fashioneth it, What makest thou? or thy work, He hath no hands?" This is the place I am coming from in this poem. God, as a potter, in a metaphorical sense, tries his children, tests his children, puts pressure on his children, not to hurt us or destroy us, but to strengthen us and cause us to trust his gentle hand.

The potter may need to put more water to a lump if it gets too stiff. When hardened before entering the fire, it can always be broken, crushed, and pressured with water to make it usable again. It is never a perfect lump, but it may be usable in God's hand.

The fire only tries the Christian. A life without trials and fire brings a soft, weak, fickle Christian who has not learned to follow the guiding touch from an All-knowing master. Imagine putting a soft vessel, not yet put to the fire, on your mantle. It would be quite strange, and certainly would not sustain any pressure put to it by unfriendly elements. I would much rather be tried, and go through temptations knowing God is faithful, and will not allow me to go through anything that will be too much for me to take when walking in the Spirit(II Corinthians 10:13-14). May I be transformed to the image of God and not the ways of this world (Romans 12:1-2).
Please enjoy...

The Potter’s Ardor

He took to his wheel, and cast a mold.
What treasures soon would he unfold!
Not wasting but a single spec
He noticed not the waning threat.
For with the peddle flailing ‘bout
Accurate structure he would strive
To render wonder; tall and stout
Subject musings to contrive.
Every touch and every poke
Might mean the ending of the strand.
Trying with sensual touch to stroke
With honor and command.
Turning away, fighting with,
Sending forceful passive flakes;
Whatever the meaning of its wish
The potter soon will certain break.
Watering with the still intent
Of some consistency to be filled.
Turning, pressing, folding, bent
Never breaking though his will.
With long a warring and a fray
To come to the ardor of this crier
Will come desirable animate clay
Through the trying of the fire.