Could man decay himself back into dust

Unswayed by reality, and though lacking all intentionality

What hollow bones could be resorbed into the dirt

From their own harvested corporeal husk

But look upon the one who first formed the clay

Likened to a potter, but greater; still undesecrated

One who holds the desolation of all vessels, bound within His kiln

 

No man has yet to form the formlessness primordial

Nor has man potential to unform himself while in Death’s sleep

But look upon the One who spoke himself into being

Even under the wrath of those who could no more enter a plea

Truly the God of gods knows where the dust settles

Sovereign is He who creates intangibly

Yet intertwining such vessels spirited in physicality

 

It is but God who manifests the dirt to life

And it is only God who disperses flesh and bone to dust

As decomposition precedes new life… or eternal fragmentation

So only God, with waters alive, consumes and makes new clay

By imbibing of His stream from cross-wounded divinity

He alone makes life; even making death alive again

He makes the dust unsettled by the current of His sustenance

 

No creature could so deliberately create a vessel

Wherein to stow away their very self

No vessel could impart its will beyond its portion

When the vessel spills it’s emptied of itself

Yet who has come and spilled the prize of grace

And yet pours endless oceans from the emptied vessel

And yet grows greater portions as it spills

 

As streams poured from without and through and to

A fountain welling up whose very source remains perpetual

Truly the God of gods has made man wiser

To know how ignorant the creature’s soul

Please, Potter, make me like an empty vessel

And though handless, form my portion of this dirt

Allow the dust of this desecrated vessel be restored to spill forth waves of You