I am in progress, a contrast to who I was, the prelude to who I will be,
A wall of canvas, being caressed into a masterpiece by His brushstrokes.
In the Potter’s hands I am a vessel-to-be, the future of the lump of clay you see,
And I am becoming like Him as more of me splatters on the wheel’s spokes.
I am wayward and unwieldy, but His patience remains untried, He is eternally kind,
And in His godliness, He acknowledges my humanity, keeping my frailty in mind.
I often forget His benefits, I rave and I rant till He reminds me of His greatness,
Then I am awed into silence by a weight of blessings that leaves me weightless.
I grow proud, carried away on the flood of my achievements, little, self-important me,
I turn my back on the Giver and worship the gifts, before the wrong gods, I bend the knee.
Humility comes with a trial, but I am not humiliated, just restored to His Presence,
With love, He teaches me once again that without Him, life would have no essence.
I bow before the God of weak beings, the Savior of the downtrodden and castoffs,
He who finds a use for the useless, a greater use than the useful are worthy of.
I am the wick upon which His spirit-fire burns, my mortal self consumed by the divine,
Yet I remain, for I carry a portion of His permanence, the ‘how’ of which cannot be divined.