Why do we poison the air we breathe,
The water we drink,
The soil beneath our feet?

The stars, aloof and ancient,
Smile down with silent knowing,
As we unreeve our cradle's threads,
And stain the blue with our discord.

Why do we strip the forests bare,
Choke the rivers with our refuse?

In the lap of the Milky Way,
We are a fragile gem, unique, irreplaceable.

Yet, we smother the sky in smog,
Turn the seas into desolate deserts,
As if we could find another oasis
In the cold expanse.

Once, we cherished the golden dawn,
The twilight’s tender embrace.
Now, we blindfold our eyes
To the beauty we obliterate.

Why do we forget our duty
To nurture, to protect, to love?

Our home, the whispering Earth,
Begs for compassion,
Yet we answer with apathy.

There is no other refuge,
No second chance among the stars.
Our planet, vibrant and alive,
Cries for mercy,

Yet

We plunder,

We pillage,

We proceed.

In the silence of the cosmos,
A solitary plea resounds,
Why do we destroy the only home
That cradles us, in infinite bound?

In the hands of Jesus, we are clay,
Moulded with love, day by day.
Though we may falter, crack, and break,
He holds us close, for His love’s sake.

With gentle touch, He shapes our form,
Through every trial, every storm.
He sees our worth, beyond the flaws,
In His embrace, we find our cause.

When we feel broken, lost, and weak,
His strength and grace are what we seek.
He doesn’t discard, He doesn’t stray,
For Jesus didn’t throw the clay away.

In His hands, we are renewed,
A masterpiece, with love imbued.
Through every scar, His light does shine,
A testament to love divine

In the potter’s hands, the clay does rest,
A work in progress, not yet its best.
Though marred and flawed, it holds potential,
A masterpiece, so quintessential.

With every turn, the wheel does spin,
A chance to start anew within.
The potter’s touch, both firm and kind,
Transforms the clay, renews the mind.

When cracks appear and pieces fall,
He doesn’t discard, but mends them all.
For in each flaw, a story’s told,
Of strength and grace, of courage bold.

So don’t throw the clay away, my friend,
For in its form, there’s much to mend.
With patience, love, and tender care,
A vessel strong, beyond compare

With hands divine, He shapes our clay,
Guiding us gently, day by day.
In every heart, a spark of light,
A reflection of His love so bright.

Through trials faced and lessons learned,
In His embrace, our souls are turned.
From brokenness, He makes us whole,
Imparting grace to every soul.

In kindness shown and love expressed,
We mirror Him, our lives are blessed.
With every act of selfless care,
His image shines, His love we share.

In His likeness, we are made,
A masterpiece, His love displayed.
In every heart, His light does glow,
A testament to the love we know.

Upon the wheel, the clay does spin,
A formless mass, new life begins.
With gentle hands, the potter moulds,
A vessel’s shape, a story unfolds.

Each press and turn, with care and grace,
Imparts a mark, a sacred trace.
Through trials of fire, the clay must go,
To strengthen, harden, and to grow.

Imperfections smoothed, flaws erased,
In the potter’s hands, the clay is placed.
From dust to art, a masterpiece,
In every curve, a sense of peace.

The potter’s touch, both firm and kind,
Transforms the clay, renews the mind.
In every vessel, a purpose found,
A testament to love profound.

In the heart of the kitchen,
where pots clatter and steam whispers,
there lies a tale of humble beginnings,
a saga of peas and ham,
a symphony of flavours,
a dance of the mundane and the marvellous.

Oh, Pea and Ham Soup,
you are the unsung hero of the pantry,
the green knight in a ceramic bowl,
the warm embrace on a cold, dreary day.

Once upon a time,
in a land of bubbling broths,
a lonely pea dreamed of greatness,
of joining forces with the mighty ham,
to create a potion of comfort,
a brew of bliss.

The peas, so green and round,
rolled into the *** with a plop,
like tiny emeralds diving into a sea of broth,
their destiny intertwined with the smoky ham,
a partnership forged in the cauldron of culinary magic.

The ham, oh the ham,
with its rich, savoury whispers,
joined the peas with a sizzle, a pop, and a bang,
bringing tales of smoky adventures,
of hickory forests and salty seas.

Together they simmered,
in a slow waltz of flavours,
the peas softening,
the ham infusing,
a marriage of textures,
a union of taste.

Garlic and onions,
the mischievous twins,
danced around the ***,
adding their own flair,
a hint of mischief,
a touch of zest.

Carrots and celery,
the reliable companions,
joined the fray,
bringing crunch and colour,
a rainbow in the ***,
a feast for the eyes.

The broth bubbled and gurgled,
like a storyteller weaving a yarn,
each bubble a chapter,
each gurgle a verse,
in the epic of Pea and Ham Soup.

And when the time was right,
the ladle dipped in,
bringing forth a spoonful of history,
a taste of tradition,
a sip of solace.

Oh, Pea and Ham Soup,
you are more than just a meal,
you are a memory,
a comfort,
a friend.

In the quiet of the kitchen,
as the last spoonful is savoured,
the tale of Pea and Ham Soup lingers,
a story told in flavours,
a poem written in broth.