Men of Clay

So, this is about some of my favorite subjects - forgiveness, guilt and grace. I find their interplay to be fascinating, so here's a poem I'm developing.

God is perfect;

therefore,

so is his forgiveness.

But man is made

merely

from clay.

Malleable,

that is the nature

of the material, clay.

Man,

molded in his youth,

bent to forms dictated by forces

other than his will,

forgets he will not always be so supple.

And so he finds

his youth is gone,

days spent

on sin and error.

And the good God

still forgives.

But can man,

having passed

through the furnace,

forgive himself,

finding now he is made

of material

less forgiving?