Obote Milton
“At
the Potters hand”
In a generation where all men gather,
Chasing what they think should matter.
Even those who never sowed
Stand boldly at the harvest owed.
Everyone longs for the victor’s crown,
Yet few are willing to kneel down.
Unwilling to bear the sacred scar
That forms the soul into who we are.
They search for joy and fulfillment,
But fall in ditches of discontentment.
Patience now wears a mocking face,
Discipline erased without a trace.
They crave the riches of the earth,
But ignore the Word of priceless worth.
Self-love is the trending creed,
Yet Christ lived far from selfish need.
Our wounds are hidden, cloaked in white,
Shining masks that dim the light.
Empty souls roam every street—
Like desert fleets in choking heat.
The wise look on and call it vain,
Like smoke that’s gone with little stain.
I’ve seen roses lose their grace,
Beauty fading with time’s pace.
It feels like a deadly, narrow pass—
Between the devil and the deep sea’s mass.
From mountaintops, I strain to see—
But fog obscures what’s meant to be.
Philosophy fails to mend the soul,
Its roots don’t touch the broken whole.
But the Potter knows each shattered part,
And molds with care the aching heart.
The Great Physician walks so near—
Bringing healing to what we fear.
So take my all, my shattered clay—
Make me whole in Your own way.
I choose to wait like never before,
Shalom is what I’m longing for.
Flourishing, now my chosen art,
Anchored deep within my heart.
Let me hold what eyes can’t see,
Beyond the lure of vanity.
For though the visible fades each day,
There still remains a hidden way.
All things may have a mortal cause,
But I’ll trust in the *Uncaused Cause.
Written by
*Obote Milton* , _poet and story writer._
*0778122604*
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