The Creator sits humbly in his chair
The excess clay His choice to wear
Molding and trimming, He finely tunes
Healing the scars of His deepest wounds
His wheel circles, spins and turns
His hands are hot, His soul burns
The figure rises and begins to take shape
But sadly meets its undeniable fate
He sits down heavy in His chair
Breaking down with an empty stare
The figure that was once erect
Now lays flat, unjustly wrecked
He can’t comprehend, why this would take place
Destroying a man with an innocent face
The wheel slows, grinds and eventually stops
The clay dries and forms a clot
The Creator seizes, and falls to the floor
His Son the pallbearer walks out the door.