The fragments of our lives – these pieces we cling to – stand, innocent, the lies we build in honor of the truth. We fear the loss of us, scrambling to scoop the sand and mold the doors and desperately proclaim to all, “Come see!” This art of life, this blindness, this reaching in the dark – and still we fear the loss.
Lord, we cry for rescue. Take our sandy hands in yours, collect us from the scraps strewn upon the carpet of ourselves. We wait, unshapen now, for your defining. You are the potter, and we the work of your hands.
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