The Vessel

The Master was searching for a vessel to use: Before Him were many. Which one would He choose?

"Take me," cried the gold one. "I'm shiny and bright. I'm of great value, and I do things just right. My beauty and luster will outshine the rest. And for someone like you, Master, gold would be best."

The Master passed on with no word at all, and looked at the silver, grand and tall. "I'll serve you, dear Master. I'll pour your wine. I'll be on your table whenever you dine. My lines are so graceful, my carving so true. And silver will always complement You."

Unheeding, the Master passed on to the brass; wide-mouthed, and shallow, and polished like glass. "Here, here!" cried the vessel. 'I know I will do. Place me on your table for all men to view."

"Look at me!" cried the goblet of crystal so clear. "My transparency shows my contents so dear. Though fragile am I, I will serve You with pride. And I'm sure I'll be happy in your house to abide.

Then the Master came next to a vessel of wood; polished and carved it solidly stood. "You may use me, Dear Master," the wooden bowl said. "But I'd rather You use me for fruit, not for bread."

Then the Master looked down and saw a vessel of clay. Empty and broken it helplessly lay. No hope had the vessel that the Master might choose - to cleanse, and make whole, to fill and to use.