“You shall be called the weaker vessel”
Said the Potter to the clay
“Not because you are inferior
But because of what you’ll say
About me, about my glory
Which shines forth in fragile things
In your weakness, I am working
Singing of the coming King
For to be the weaker vessel
Is to carry something rare
Something tender, something priceless
Something to be held with care
Just as prisms capture sunlight
Then dispersing brilliant rays
So a woman bears a glory
Which she learns to give away
For perhaps beauty is sweeter
When born of fragility
Made manifest in tender hands
Which weave beautiful things
Things that beckon broken souls
To come and taste and see
That though this world is cold and dark
They can find rest in me
For hands that weave and nurture and hold
And bid the broken come
Are declaring kingdom glory
In the making of a home
In the baking of bread and the planting of seeds
In the keeping of little hearts
Her hands, though slender, are wielding a sword
Which presses back the dark
You are the weaker vessel, yes
But I hope one day you’ll see
That fragility embraced with joy
Points a broken world to me.”
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