Can the clay say to the potter,
I want to be a sword when the potter needs a scythe
Can the clay say to the potter,
I want to be a glass when the potter needs a jar
All the clay can say is make mold me into a vessel fit to be used
He throws me into the fire
It Burns as sin melts away
Once I dry in the sun
he fills me to overflowing with living water
destined to quench the thirst of dry and dusty souls
As time goes by my clay grows brittle and starts to crack
The potter picks me up and throws me into the fire to be used once again
