I hear the sound of falling rain, which palters down and heals my pain.
At the call of shattered pots my eyes awaken,
Foretelling sounds tells the world: it shall be shaken.
With clefted lids I now behold: The raging tempest bright and bold.
The potter’s kiln once filled with fire, its embers lost their burning ire.
In my ears splintered pots are barking; the high-pitch sounds my psyche, marking.
But search the floor, and see the stacks; clay devices filled with cracks.
“These are nations.” A voice did say, and I turned about the other way.
I saw him not, the man who spake, but there beheld the man who brake.
A rod of iron in his fist, and in the other: a golden list.
He wore a white and simple robe, and he stood upon the lighted globe.
The pots were nations, I could see, and he who broke them… it was me.
“They’re naught but earth.” The voice said again, “And all contrived by mortal men.”
I wondered, ‘Is there none worth leaving whole? A worthy pot, an gorgeous bowl?’
“Nay. Some of beauty, adorned with gems… but pride corrupts the best of them.
“Their strength is but faction, pride and greed – for they are all of Babel’s seed.
“Fret thou not of judgment day, True kings are not made but of clay
“That which from the earth: worth saving, will be God’s Kingdom’s precious paving.”
The me before me then replied, “It’s not for kingdoms that He died,
“For a time these things were needed, while all the earth by Christ was seeded.
“But we must tell them all to heed: there is bit One whom all kings need.”
And he that overcometh, and keepeth my works to the end, to him will I give power over the nations, And he shall rule hem with a rod of iron. As the vessels of a potter shall they be broken to shivers: even as I received of my Father. (Rev. 2:26 & 27)