Trustworthy Hands

They grabbed me and threw me down,

Beating me soundly and thoroughly.

My world was spinning mercilessly.

Just when I thought I could rest,

They grabbed me again

And began pulling, twisting and yanking.

When I thought it was almost over,

It all started again.

The pain was unrelenting.

All this time, I thought the hands meant harm,

As they molded me in shapes I did not want to be.

Then there was the fire:

Searing, hardening, but not destroying me.

I was rescued just in time—

By the same hands that put me in the fire.

Those hands that seemed merciless

Were amazingly those of my Savior.

The hands that stretched and molded

Were the same hands that formed me.

Though they felt like they were destroying,

They brought form to my unformed clay:

The soiled became holy

The useless became useful

The ugly became beautiful

The worthless became priceless.

Now, when I feel those hands about me,

I recognize the Potter

And I no longer fight His work in me

I relish the touch,

Knowing those Hands are reliably

trustworthy, purposeful and loving.

Patti McCarthy Broderick

October 2010