In the weary depths of my despair, Where shadows weave the threads of woe, I find the end, the stark, bare truth—Where God’s own hands wish me to go.

Exhausted, with no more to give, Across this rough-hewn, rocky path, I lay me down, relinquish strife—To rise above this aftermath.

For in His grasp, a potter’s art, A vessel, cracked and worn with age, God cherishes each flaw and scar, And sets me on His healing stage.

With gentle touch, He molds anew, The shattered pieces, frail and thin, To form a masterpiece from ruin, Infusing life where none had been.

A vessel, once more whole and sound, Emerges from the Potter’s wheel, To serve again, to love, to fill, With fresher waters, fervent zeal.

So when you find you cannot walk, And all your skies have turned to gray, Remember, in your brokenness, God’s perfect plan may just hold sway.

April 19, 2024
Created by
MarkWaldrop