Tuesday, March 3, 2009

The Potter's Son


I walked into this potter’s shop with rows and rows of pots. All dried and cracked with malformed shapes, and funny little spots.“What are these that look like junk and occupy your shelf?” “Why, these”, said he, “are the finest works for special use and helps. For kings and queens, have need of them, and princes and for lords; So costly are these special pots, so scratched, and marked, and scored.”

“But who would want these twisted forms, these odd and worthless things? They have no look of promise, for princes or for kings. They leak as one can plainly see, they’re cracked, and dried, and frail. And who would make such worthless pots or offer them for sale?” “Oh these”, said he, “are not for sale; I keep them for but One. He finds their worth as more than gold, as gifts unto His Son.

He has this way of taking pots and broken things from strife and turns them all around again, and fills them with His life. He sees them not as you or I, all broken, young, or old. But when He’s finished with these pots, they cost much more than gold. And then you’ll see them here and there with purpose and with plan, these broken pots with malformed shapes rejected by each man.

They have again a second chance, or more, these vessels of disgrace. For the glory of the Potter’s Son has prepared for them a place. And now you’ll see them here and there as vessels fit for kings; And loving much, the Potter’s Son there’s just one song they sing. They know too well from where they’ve come and with eternal thanks These broken pots, with stately walks, all praise Him in their ranks.

“But who could hope in such as these that sit on dusty shelves, When light, or love, or touch, or warmth, is not within ourselves? The One who works such works as these would He have time for me?”“ Oh Yes! The Potter’s Son is full of grace, and love, as you shall see. He alone can fix your dreams and shattered parts of life. The Potters Son, He has a name, His name is Jesus Christ.”

I'd love to take credit for this poem. But, I can't. My dad wrote it- after being awoken from a dream in the early morning hours, a few years ago. No matter how many times I read it, it always melt my heart and makes me so grateful for belonging to such a graceful Saviour.


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