One by one he shapes them,
forms them from the dust;
one by one he scoops them up
and breathes them into life.
They begin as lumps of clay,
crude and unassuming,
they begin as heaps of earth,
lifeless, lacking form.
Alone they would be nothing;
alone they would not be,
but the Crafter takes them up,
gently, in his masterful hands.
They wriggle and writhe as infants,
they wrestle in the cradle of his hand;
eagerly they await his touch,
gladly they sense his love.
Moment by moment they are sculpted,
taking shape with every prod;
with meticulous care they are sculpted,
softly coming to life.
They’re unaware of their miracle,
unable to see their own birth,
but their Crafter is one of a kind,
and they are his works of art.
They feel some sense of his presence,
but he doesn’t command their life;
he forms them in love and affection,
but releases them to their freedom.
They exit his hands in perfection,
each a masterpiece of life;
they leap from his hands with vigor;
there are no two alike.
Day by day they’ll unravel,
both the world and themselves;
the world will erode their splendor,
down to their very core.
And there what awaits them is mercy,
in the form of a signature, a seal;
a stamp of ownership by the Craftsman,
a tag of love on the soul.
Hopefully then they will realize
their Creator, their Crafter, their Source;
hopefully then they’ll return
to their Crafter, the Holder of life.