Father, our alabaster jar lays shattered even as the fragrance of worship is released. Our feet are covered with shards of fractured clay as we stand in this broken place.
You tenderly pick up each sharp and slivered piece. You hold them as precious treasures. You know their cost. Hardened pieces soften in the warmth of Your love. You remake us. You remold us.
Jars of clay molded by the Potter fit once again for the use of a King.