Conception


Forms, mist, silence do

 

What shall I make of thee asks the potter of the clay

 Oh perhaps a king a beggar a Wiseman or perhaps a simple fool

Oh what form, to what task shall I set thee asks the maker

  That which is created does now curse its maker

 For arrogance is found within the creature

In pride that which was made seeks now to usurp

 To take the place of the potter

For pride and self-importance are its way

This lessor vessel now calls out: you made me!

You made me as I am!

It’s because of you I am what I am

 

Oh the potter formed his clay

 He molded each of his vessels from the very best at hand

 Gave to each thing pressed and formed purpose for its needs

Yet even in the best imperfection is sometimes found

 

The potter works the clay

So it is with clay

So the wise man asks

Does the clay which forms the pot

Then have the right to question he who created it.

 

Fire purifies

 It tempers all he makes  

 It eats away the imperfection

 

 That the creature does forget it was granted choice

So was given more than a creature nature

 So choice this ability to decide a course in life is never forced

 No demands are placed upon the created vessels

They must decide between just two

Choices each must make

But mortal man so does seek for the gray

But is confronted with but two

With no gray just black or white light or dark

And warning and the words

Now chooses

Life or death

And the maker to the clay says mine is the better way, I ask I beg that you thus choose life and come and follow me…

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