Hands caked with evidences of pottery sculpting. Clay lining all the creases.
Gentle fingers guiding a softened adobe-colored lump.
His brow slightly furrowed in concentration. Eyes intent on the subject of expertise.
Deft hands working for the perfect outcome.
A sigh escapes pursed lips. Defect detected.
Doubtless it wasn’t the Potter’s fault. He is the Master.
No… the clay itself is flawed. Its original composition is altered.
Carefully the Potter removes the deformed lump from the wheel and with His hands remedies the formula and places the reshaped clay again upon the wheel. Silence induced by concentration again ensues.
Finally, after hours of perfecting, a beautiful vessel begins to take shape. Perfect in symmetry, exquisite in appearance, practical in service and sturdy in character, this vessel is no ordinary work of art. Into each creation He pours equal effort, nevertheless they are all unique, individual and stunning in composition.
I may attempt to make myself beautiful, yet without the correct formula, I can never succeed.
Only when I am pliable in the Potter’s hands, can any true beauty emerge.
And who would desire to be in another’s hands? His are the gentlest earth has ever known.
They are the Potter’s hands…