The Clay

I am made  less by
My  own  loss, the
Forces that compress lead
To  the cross and to all
Sacrifice of self so that
Truth can well like a
Spring that never dies.
I am the source of the
Eternal stone, the
Load we  bear and
Suffer here, the weight •
Oppresses but  the
Good  and true will
Carry it in understanding
And  in love. It is the
Selfless act by which you
Prove your  worthiness, to
Grasp  the brand that
Burns your  skin is
True living. But you
Die, you die, your
Ready  sacrifice is to
Be  the clay he
Fashions in his hand,
To  be the force for good
That he  has planned and sent
To  do -
Though   others may
Perceive or not is
Not  your care - you
Do  as you are bid
And  hope your  deeds
Will outlast the
Timeous  hands
He  controls and feeds.

previous poem