What glory has a worm
That it could give it to the sun?
By what arrogance could it dare
To give it none?
For the sun has no need of the worm,
But shines upon whom it will,
Be they in the deepest valley,
Or upon the highest hill.
But eloquence of praise is easy
When the sun is shining bright.
But greater is praise desperately whispered
Midst the storm and the dead of night.
What is clay that it should by word and song boast,
And think itself greater than it ought?
For is it not the skill of the Potter
That brings it glory or brings it to naught?
But this is the praise clay to the Potter brings,
That it endure baptism by water and refining fires,
And yielding itself willingly to his transforming hand,
Becomes all that the Potter’s loving heart desires.
D.J. Ludlow Copyright 2007.