Vessel

The Potter made a vessel

Fashioned to his will.

But the vessel that he made.

Was imperfect and unskilled.

The vessel was a thing of clay.

The sort you use, then throw away

It was worth little, of itself

But the vessel was filled with love.

It poured out love upon the living

Free and selfless was it's giving

When at last the clay was dry 

It was vessel time to die.

The Potter Behind His Work

And saw that it was good,

Perfect, and flawless

Just the way it should

Then he was glad.

When the vessel

He had made.