Page:Hand in hand; (IA handinhand00kipl).pdf/65



HAT will Love make of me, I, who am clay? How will Love bake of me On firing day?

How will Love take me Shape me and mould? And will Love break me, When I grow old?

Take thy clay, Potter Love, (Round runs the wheel!) Ah, 'tis ordained above, Man's clay must feel!

One for high honour made, One for dishonour, One in the churchyard laid, Roses upon her.

Break thy clay, Potter, then, (Round runs the wheel!) Woe for poor clay o' men, Always to feel!