I am a great admirer of Stephen Price’s poetry — and his preaching, too. The poetry is blessedly shorter (whoops — can’t resist, old friend). He so very often has his finger just on the pulse of current events. And, therefore, I wanted very much to reprint this deeply personal piece.
There are things in the mud
that makes up the clay of my life
That you don’t want to know about.
Just leave it at the fact
That has touched the soil of my life
For 65 years,
Has left behind
Some piece of themselves.
There are even bits
From years before my birth
Mixed in with the mud of my days.
Constantly turning on God’s wheel,
To be pounded and kneaded
Into workable clay.
Moistened with God’s tears and my own.
I cannot tell what final shape I will take.
So many beginnings have collapsed,
Or simply needed to be re-thrown.
I am dizzy on the Potter’s wheel;
yet grateful to be still spinning.
Fearful of the kiln,
anxious about the glaze,
Trusting of the Potter.
We spin on.
Rejoicing in those moments,
rare though they be,
When Potter’s hand
Seem to merge
In the whirling of the wheel.