By his Hands

Somedays I hear it, the sound of a hammer hitting a chisel.

Somedays I see it, pieces of stone, split and fall.

I am the clay and he is the potter.


He hums as he works, “You were fearfully and wonderfully made, my child.”

The hammer hits the chisel again and again.

I bend and bow.

I crack at the seams.

Blood and water flow,

Covering me, washing me clean.

He doesn’t stop, let up, or slow down.

He keeps working.

He keeps molding,

sanding the rough spots, smoothing the edges,

and he keeps humming, “Be still, my child. Let me labour, for my works are marvelous.”