One piece at a time, the Potter uncovered the pieces of clay.
They were scattered on the ground from where He gently lifted them.
As He began to speak the designs that He would make,
The broken clay transformed into its new shape.
There it was, His newly made guitar;
Perfectly created, without a flaw!
Filled with pride, He played the melodies for which He had created it
And the skies were filled with the colors of His smile.
Yet, one day, the wind blew the guitar astray
And the pieces of clay were left without a shape.
“This time,” He thought,
“I will create something sturdy like a rod.”
His voice was heard over the heavens
As the mighty thunder would speak.
The pieces of clay became His feet.
He carved paths, climbed mountains, walked miles on new carpet.
When He stepped on concrete, away into pieces went His feet.
So He gave it some thought and came up with a plot:
“There is only one shape
In which the clay will no longer break.”
A tear caused a storm!
The oceans revealed a ROAR!
For the clay had now turned into a tree.
The earth shook!
The rocks cracked!
The veil ripped!
The clay stood in place
As It took all the BLAME!
STOP—It has been done!
Now the Potter’s hands have scars.
His blood keeps together the clay
As He listens to the melodies of the songs played
By His unbreakable pots of clay.
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