FIRST THING I REMEMBER, FIRST THING THAT I SAW

ANOTHER EMPTY POT OF CLAY, STANDING AT THE DOOR

AUTUMN’S LEAVES HAVE FALLEN, LONG WINTER’S WINDS BLOW COLD

THEN ONCE IN EVERY LIFE TIME, THE ENDING TURNS TO GOLD

THE POTTER’S HAND CONTAINS, THE LIFE THAT MAKES THE CLAY

  SING AND DANCE UPON THE WHEEL, LIKE CHILDREN AS THEY PLAY

 ALL THE LIGHT REMEMBERED, WHICH SHINES WITHIN THE FORM

  BROKEN POTS MAY LIVE AGAIN, LOST DREAMS OF SOULS RESTORED

EARTHEN VESSELS SOMETIMES, ARE MORE THAN THEY SEEM

TWO DOLLAR FIFTY POTS OF CLAY ARE OFTEN FULL OF DREAMS

WHAT ARE DREAMS BUT MEMORIES OF WHAT WE WANT TO BE

CLOUDS OF MANY COLOURS, CRYING TO BE FREE

SEVEN STEPS TO HEAVEN, SOME ARE THROUGH THE FIRE

THE POTTER’S MIX NEEDS KNEADING, TO FULFIL HIS DESIRE

CLAY LIKE GOLD IS BEATEN, UNTIL IT DOES PRODUCE

AN EARTHEN ERN OF BEAUTY, A CHALICE FULL OF GRACE

       THE POTTER’S HAND CONTAINS, THE LIFE WHICH MAKES THE CLAY

       SING AND DANCE UPON THE WHEEL, LIKE CHILDREN AS THEY PLAY

       ALL THE LIGHT REMEMBERED, WHICH LIVES WITHIN THE FORM

       BROKEN POTS MAY LIVE AGAIN, LOST DREAMS OF SOULS RESTORED.

 

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