from mud and sticks my soul was born
though vestiges of past remain
I do believe that pieces cruelly torn
make stronger though they leave a stain

for grace can patch the sorest rend
and stitch a patchwork velvet soft
the artist will each detail tend
and raise the fallen high aloft

in gratitude I bow my head
unworthy of the potters plan
mud and sticks go where they’re led
and I will rest in the artist’s hands