In the serene placidity of the night,

My mind racing with thoughts,

I pause and contemplate in my heart.

Will they apprehend and take possession of my words?

Will the words perceive as they appear,

Or be comprehended by each new person,

Interpreting to his own like and forbid dislike, my words?

Will they abide only on the screen of this machine, my words?

Maybe, when at last I have reached my commissioned destination,

The will become bread worthy of His table, my words.

Thou are our Father,

We are the clay.

And Thou our Potter,

And we the work of Thy hand.

Isaiah 64:8