The Potter Poem by Robert Edgar Burns

When we are the weakest,
We are like large lumps of clay,
That the potter must tread down,
To make his great art for display.

A statue may be chiseled,
Out of nothing else but rock.
But he who does the chipping,
Sees inside what will be wrought.

A sculptor finds great beauty,
Not yet obvious to you or me.
But he doesn’t stop his whittling,
Till the treasure is what you see!

A potter, a chiseler, a sculptor.
These things I know I’m not today.
But thank you Lord for choosing,
And making me Your hunk of clay!