This way,
That way,
Every which way,
Pushed
Pulled
Stretched
Squished
The more i live,
The more i realize
that
i am clay.
Many desire to form
me
To trim off my
unwanted edges
With their cookie
cutters.
To be play-dough with
a soul is the most perplexing position possible.
There are the 4 year
olds
Stuffing me in their
mouths
Trying to eat me when
the teacher isn’t looking.
There are the
students
Striving to attain
perfection through me,
To prove their skill
in manipulating me.
But they all try to
fight against the one Artist.
They try to rip
pieces of me out of His hands,
Confident of their
superior plan for me.
But as play-dough
with a soul,
i must choose.
i must choose to
yield only to the Artist’s fingers,
To harden myself to
the persistence of the amateurs.
As play-dough with a
soul, i choose You, the Artist,
To soften my clay to
Your will,
Bend me to make Your
beauty,
Strengthen me to be
Your work alone.
