The Molding

The clay really has no say, does it?

Just His hand, scraping off the excess,
whenever what He is creating in me, doesn't match what is already there.

Then there is the creativity of His hand,
shaping my contours into something even more beautiful than before.
all the while, tears stream down my face inside
until He releases His hand,
giving me a break
from His disciplining touch.

Then, gratitude.