But the pot he was shaping from the clay was marred in his hands;
so the potter formed it into another pot, shaping it as seemed best to him.
Does the clay say to the potter, 'What are you making?'
As softened clay within Your hands,
This life of mine is Yours to command.
I place myself upon Your wheel
No matter what my heart may feel.
Master Potter, You have a plan
And I submit “just as I am”.
With tender hands You smooth and mold
As seasons of my life unfold.
At times You twist and pull this clay
When I begin to drift away.
In the middle of Your wheel
Is the place you ordain for me,
A clay shaped for eternity.