II Corinthians 4
i am a plaster saint:
i am a hurriedly painted,
pained and harried mock-up.
A model saint? A plastered saint.
Clean hands?
My whitewashed appearance belies the truth:
i’m stained by the thoughts
that nest in my head.
These fault lines that craze my hands and face
betray my scared scarred heart’s disgrace:
i am brittle
i am broken.
Look at my feet of clay:
you will see they are brittle, too,
and worn out standing on their pedestal.
They have often tried to walk, but fallen.
Look at my hands:
i can hold nothing in these statuesque hands.
i can only hold them out towards others,
and hope, somehow, that warmth and love
will escape their cold clay confines
and be a living memorial.
Like the statue, like the clay, i am dust.
Clay enclosing God’s treasure trove:
i am animated by the gospel of God
Who said, “Let there be light,”
Who caused His light to shine
in the darkness of my heart:
God Who put His treasure in me,
in this earthen vessel, this plaster saint,
that the excellence of the power
may be of Him, and not of me.
Posted by marcus 
