Cast your first stones you pious and self-righteous.

Strike me down with your looks, words, and deeds.

For I am not as wise nor learned as you, and yet your
stones fly?

As I close my eyes to await my fate, I see the Potter
gathering up your stones.

Stones meant to cause me harm, now turned to clay
in His hands.

I see the wheel turning slowly and hear the rickety
sound it makes as it tumbles slightly on it’s axis.

I see His feet adorned in gold, pump slowly on the treadle
as His tears wet the clay.

For out of your fear and hate, I am made on the Potter’s wheel,
moving slowly in His hands, formed from the very earth that He
loves.

Not a perfect vessel, yet one in working; not perfect clay, yet
refined by His words.

His hands are gentle and disciplined as He smooths the rough edges
of my life.

Each one a trial of thought or deed, yet sin nonetheless.

On the Potter’s wheel I turn slowly, shaped in the image He wants for me.

His tears of grace rid the imperfections that stain carnal man.

His eyes of mercy, keep me moving along the path even when I fall.

His hands work my heart, my mind, and my soul.

His heart of passion, fire kilns my spirit.

Are you so refined that your wheel does not turn?

Are you so righteous that His hands touch you not?

For your mind is closed and your heart is broken for the
joy of the wheel.

Cracked is your vessel, long lost is the luster that was your joy.

The Potter’s wheel still turns for you my friend.

His hands still shape; His tears still wet the clay; His feet never tire,
and His heart always loves.

The scars on His hands touch the clay of my life to remind me of the cross He bore just for me as a lump of earth He forever turns on His wheel.

rb © 2008