Broken (Sue Wharton, 24 February 1991)

It lay in fragments, shattered, broken, marred:

the vessel crushed – its beauty torn apart.

The pattern that had formed its outer glory

                in dust and splinters split upon the ground.

The shape it once had held lay there no more –

                the etched design of years we’d grown to know –

                the potter’s handiwork returned to nought,

                lay fractured, rudely scattered on the earth.

Anguish held me and torment choked my soul;

                the agony of brokenness – the pain,

                the severing of the known, the shadows of the past

                grief overwhelmed me, shook me as I cried.

The hidden inner parts were now displayed,

                a myriad pieces in the seeing light,

                their covering a mask, was swept away;

                unveiled, their shame and torture laid to view.

Some trod that way and trampled underfoot

                or threw aside the remnants as they passed;

                yet others would deride the crumpled flask

                seeing no beauty in the scattered clay.

Yet in the desperation of my heart

                I see the potter, weeping, stooping down;

                gently he cradles the fragments, lifting them close,

                not one is missed, each piece is sought and held.

My precious workmanship, the pleasure of my hands

                I fashioned you and gave you life and form;

                how is your beauty scarred, your tenderness exposed,

                who plundered the secret places of your heart?

Who savaged the love I planted deep within?

Bruised and rejected you brought sorrow, tears?

Such pain I see, torment and misery,

                deep dark despair – yet you were made for joy!

You were not made to bear this heavy load;

                you have been crushed – but you are in my hands.

The Master Potter gently took each piece,

                and built again a vessel as he chose.

Its shape was softer than before – its tracing fine,

                he breathed his healing love to seal each join;

                it was a patient work, he did not rush

                to force the fractured remnants into place,

                but held each one until the pain had ebbed,

                then quietly joined them in his new design.

I felt the newness of the Maker’s touch

                and saw with wonder how he brought again

                a treasure, fashioned to his glorious plan;

                a new creation, out of brokenness.

He held it now with pleasure in his eyes,

                yes, and with love and set it in its place.

‘You have come through the fire, my little one,

                you have been ravaged – now you’re made anew,

                rejoice to me my child born out of love,

                and know that I was broken once – for you.'