The potter

I am but clay in the hands you've molded,
A vessel shaped by your divine will,
Formed from earth and air, a creation beholden,
To the likeness of kings, to heavenly heights I still.

Confessions spill as I gaze upon your word,
Refreshing streams of truth wash over me,
Awakening from suppression, my soul stirred,
From depths of depression, I finally see.

An accomplice to my own undoing,
Victim of my self-inflicted pain,
Dreams obscured by shadows, mind's pursuing,
A virus of doubt, my spirit to restrain.

Haunted by regrets, enslaved by mind's folly,
Clutching memories that turn to foes,
Love's elusive grasp, a hollow melancholy,
Heart bruised, weary from endless blows.

But within this broken vessel lies a truth,
The Potter's hands have shaped me whole,
From flaws to bylaws, from pain to proof,
In the Creator's embrace, I find my soul.