The Master passed on, with no word at all,
And looked at the Silver urn, narrow and tall.
"I will serve, dear Master, I'll pour out your wine;
I will be on your table whenever you dine.
My lines are so graceful, my carving so true,
I am sure I am fine enough, even for you."

Unheeding He passed to the vessel of Brass,
Wide-mouthed and shallow and polished like glass.
"Here," cried the vessel, "I know I will do.
Place me on your table for men to view."
"Look at me," called the goblet of Crystal so clear;
"Though fragile I am, I will serve you with fear."

The Master came next to the vessel of Wood,
Polished and carved, it solidly stood.
"You may use me, dear Master," the wooden bowl said,
"But I'd rather you used me for fruit, not for bread."

Then the Master looked down on a vessel of Clay,
Empty and broken it helplessly lay;
With little hope that the Master might choose
To clean and make whole, to fill and to use.
"Oh, this is the vessel I've been hoping to find;
I'll mend it and use it and make it all mine.
I need not the vessel with pride of itself,
Nor one that is narrow to sit on a shelf;
Nor one that is big-mouthed and shallow and loud
Nor one that displays it's contents so proud."

Then gently He lifted the vessel of Clay
Mended and cleaned it and filled it that day.
He spoke to it kindly, "There is work you must do;
Just pour out to others as I pour into you."