Dance of the Potter’s wheel

Sunday morning poetry. Church: words spoken to me, shared lovingly with you.
My second chance to shape my faith every Sunday for a year.

I stand at the center
of a world gone awry
surrounded by words
of despondent grief

locked inside
cells of skin
waterproof
until the acrid tears

travel down this desolate road
secrets held close
best withheld to keep peace.
I live in a world of death.

My enemies
believe their story.
My life’s stream
dries up.

I am
my gift to You,
God. Throwing my words
down.

I am a broken pot
shards of clay
desiring healing
thrown down to mold.

Isaiah 64:7 There is no one who calls on Your name, Who arouses himself to take hold of You; For You have hidden Your face from us And have delivered us into the power of our iniquities. 8 But now, O LORD, You are our Father, We are the clay, and You our potter; And all of us are the work of Your hand. 9Do not be angry beyond measure, O LORD, Nor remember iniquity forever; Behold, look now, all of us are Your people.…

Job 10:3 Does it please you to oppress me, to spurn the work of your hands, while you smile on the plans of the wicked?

Jeremiah 31:9 They will come with weeping; they will pray as I bring them back. I will lead them beside streams of water on a level path where they will not stumble…

A Savior walks by my side.

Art dance Memoir Poetry Sermons

4 Comments Leave a comment

    • It feels like the last chapter in my life. Could there be one more? Is this second to last? — The first three chapters burned, scarred, healed and alas new skin grows, albeit sensitive. Thankfully. 😉 I appreciate your stopping by and love reading your posts as well. Happy writing, J (Some of my poems are very personal, blush, and others are observations of people I meet. It is hard to tell sometimes which ones are which but that is part of the mystery of life. We all begin to seem alike but still hold a uniqueness all our own.)

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