Love the Potter
WHAT will Love make of me,
I, who am clay?
How will Love bake of me
On firing day?
How will Love take me
Shape me and mould?
And will Love break me,
When I grow old?
Take thy clay, Potter Love,
(Round runs the wheel!)
Ah, 'tis ordained above,
Man's clay must feel!
One for high honour made,
One for dishonour,
One in the churchyard laid,
Roses upon her.
Break thy clay, Potter, then,
(Round runs the wheel!)
Woe for poor clay o' men,
Always to feel!
51
