The Potter slowly watches morning break;
He sits before his wheel, before the day.
He ponders what it is He's going to make;
And slowly He begins to turn the clay.

The clay is damp, and stiff, and spiritless;
A little lump of cold and gritty earth.
The wheel is whirling swiftly, errorless;
The Potter’s hands are slowly forming birth.

He smiles as, slowly, surely, wanes the day;
Beneath His fingers rises what He willed.
The substance had been just a lump of clay;
Yet, He has made it endless, lovely, filled.

The Potter bends above His work, made whole.
A fervent tear falls down and fills the bowl.