Dear Potter,
The lump of clay that I am keeps crying
for some form day by day.
I yearn for you to mold me.
This is a trust-song, Lord.
I am in your hands like clay.
I am ready to be transformed:
I expect to be molded.
I expect to be beautiful.
I expect to be loved.
And if, by chance,
someone should drop me
as your apprentices sometimes do,
I expect to be hurt.
I’m just trying to say
I have surrendered to your dream for me.
I am in your hands like clay.
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