Saturday, July 23, 2016


The potter makes vessels of clay by spinning and molding it. 
As the potter molds the clay, he pulls, presses, wets, stretches,
 and spins it to make it a useful vessel. 
If there are stones, sticks, and foreign material in the clay,
 he must remove them or the vessel will be marred. 
If he is unable to remove the foreign objects,
he is forced to discard the piece of clay
and start over with some clay that he can work with.
Sometimes when the potter is molding the clay,
 it doesn’t yield to his hands and becomes marred. 
Then he has to start over again. 
After he crushes the clay into a lump and remolds it,
then it may become the vessel that he intended it to be. 

The whole key to becoming a finished product of value
 is in the clay being moldable. 

The potter does the work. 
The clay just yields.

God is also as a potter in our lives and we are the clay.
 How like the clay we are. 
Some of us are unwilling to let go of the trash, stones, etc.
in our lives so that the Lord can mold us into something useful. 
If we refuse, He cannot use us. 
But, if we are willing to let Him mold us,
even though it involves pressure, spinning, wetting, pulling, etc.
The process may be slow and painful,
but we can become  vessels of blessing and honor
by yielding to His hands.

 The word which came to Jeremiah from the LORD, saying, 
 Arise, and go down to the potter's house, 
and there I will cause thee to hear my words. 
Then I went down to the potter's house, 
and, behold, he wrought a work on the wheels. 
And the vessel that he made of clay was marred 
in the hand of the potter: so he made it again another vessel, 
as seemed good to the potter to make it. 
Jeremiah 18:1-4 

Sunday, July 3, 2016



America (My Country, 'Tis of Thee)

by Rev. Samuel F. Smith - 1832

My country, 'tis of Thee,
Sweet Land of Liberty
Of thee I sing;
Land where my fathers died,
Land of the pilgrims' pride,
From every mountain side
Let Freedom ring.
My native country, thee,
Land of the noble free,
Thy name I love;
I love thy rocks and rills,
Thy woods and templed hills,
My heart with rapture thrills
Like that above.
Let music swell the breeze,
And ring from all the trees
Sweet Freedom's song;
Let mortal tongues awake;
Let all that breathe partake;
Let rocks their silence break,
The sound prolong.
Our fathers' God to Thee,
Author of Liberty,
To thee we sing,
Long may our land be bright
With Freedom's holy light,
Protect us by thy might
Great God, our King.
Our glorious Land to-day,
'Neath Education's sway,
Soars upward still.
Its hills of learning fair,
Whose bounties all may share,
Behold them everywhere
On vale and hill!
Thy safeguard, Liberty,
The school shall ever be,
Our Nation's pride!
No tyrant hand shall smite,
While with encircling might
All here are taught the Right
With Truth allied.
Beneath Heaven's gracious will
The stars of progress still
Our course do sway;
In unity sublime
To broader heights we climb,
Triumphant over Time,
God speeds our way!
Grand birthright of our sires,
Our altars and our fires
Keep we still pure!
Our starry flag unfurled,
The hope of all the world,
In peace and light impearled,
God hold secure!

Blessed is the nation whose God is the LORD
Psalm 33:12