Kamathi Lesin Lyrics by Unknown Artist

Mould me as you wish,
O divine artist
I am a lump of clay in your hand,
shape whatever form and figure you please, my Lord

I do not know the shape you hold in your mind for me,
I cannot sense your supreme and holy plan
the path I thought was mine, walking in the dark,
O great artist, now at last I understand it

Mould me as you wish…

I too could one day come to be happy,
if I were made by your hand, in the midst of the suffering I have known
because of human weakness I do feel the pain,
yet, my Lord, mould me still, just as you please

Mould me as you wish,
O divine artist
I am a lump of clay in your hand,
shape whatever form and figure you please, my Lord

This is a hymn of surrender built on one of the Bible’s most enduring images, the potter and the clay, drawn from the prophet Jeremiah, who watched a potter reshape a marred lump into something new. The singer offers himself in exactly that spirit: “mould me as you wish, O divine artist; I am a lump of clay in your hand, shape whatever form and figure you please.” He hands over all say in what he becomes.

The middle verse is honest about the humility this requires. “I do not know the shape you hold in your mind for me, I cannot sense your supreme and holy plan.” He admits he cannot see the finished work God intends, and confesses that “the path I thought was mine, walking in the dark,” was never really his own design, “O great artist, now at last I understand it.” Real surrender begins with letting go of our own blueprints.

The final verse is the most touching, because it does not pretend the moulding is painless. “Because of human weakness I do feel the pain,” he says, honest that being shaped can hurt. And yet, precisely there, he keeps trusting, believing that “I too could one day come to be happy, if I were made by your hand,” even “in the midst of the suffering I have known.” His last word is not a demand for comfort but a renewed yielding, “yet, my Lord, mould me still, just as you please.” What the listener is left with is mature, costly trust, a heart that cannot see the pattern and can feel the pressure of the potter’s hands, and still chooses to remain soft clay, willing to be shaped into whatever God, the divine artist, knows is good.