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Yet the potters don’t worry that they are going to come down with some terrible disease or even that they will have only a short life. Rather, they spend all their time competing with the goldsmiths and the silversmiths, imitating the bronzeworkers, and thinking it’s the greatest honor imaginable that they spend their lives making counterfeit gods.

10 Their hearts are nothing but rust. Their hopes are more useless than dirt. Their lives are worth less than the clay they mold. 11 Why? Because the potters don’t know who made them. They don’t know who breathed life into them and made them move, who put a spirit in them to become a living being.

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