When sorrows deep and burdens mount,
And tears well up as from a fount,
My child’s heart is wont to say,
”Wherein hast Thou Thy love displayed?”
Thy rod I feel; the pressure builds;
My Potter’s hand its strength does wield,
And I, an unformed lump of clay,
Ask, “Why hast Thou formed me this way?”
My Father’s heart, how must it ache,
When I His love and grace mistake
For vengeance or a pleasure vain,
When He does keenly feel my pain?
How dare I reason—feeble mind!
Or doubt the plan, wise and divine,
Which, using pressure, fire or flood,
Would form a vessel honoring God?
R. Short (2002)
“Repentance Toward God”; “Faith Toward Our Lord Jesus Christ”