Alone Poem by Simon Miller

From the innocent infant,
To the ages of elders,
We are never enough alone.

Eloi, my Salvation,
Take this mess I call my soul.
Form it in the Potter's Hands
Into something you desire
Into something beautiful

In birth alone,
In death alone,
We are less
We are weak
We are lower
We are nothing

Eloi, my Salvation,
Take this mess i call my soul.
Form it in the Potter's Hands
into something worthier
Into something You desire
Into something beautiful