Clay

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Every rose has its thorn, you say,

“She’s no more than molded clay,

Chipped and broken

Frayed and flawed.”

You may see disgust

While with God I awe.

 

You scoff at the broken pieces.

Well, scoff all you want. You’ll never know what peace is.

Your insults come through unclean lips.

To see true beauty, you’re ill equipped.

I saw in her what you could not,

For I a greater beauty sought.

 

She sees my chips and broken pieces

And guides me to who, my pain, eases.

Her eyes on the gates of heaven rest.

Her life, her work, is truly blessed.

She won’t be bothered with cheaper things

While the courts of heaven ring.

 

No few burdens do I bear.

My guilt’s heavier than the cross I wear.

I give her my word, I love her so,

But a promise kept I’ll never know.

My broken chips outweigh my soul.

But she takes what’s left. To have. To hold.

 

She puts away her own desires.

She speaks with wisdom, divine inspired.

Her joy flows over to those she loves.

She is a servant in all she does.

As far as her beauty, no words could I write.

I can hardly spark, while her fire lights the night

 

Does not the potter have the right,

To mold some clay to his delight?

While others serve a simple purpose.

What I’ve said only cracks the surface.

Of all her value, all her worth

Of all things cherished, she comes first.

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