Me: Lord, I long to be capable of worshipping you in proportion to your glory.
God: You are the instrument.
Me: Yes, but our old spinet is so inferior. So am I. It is already out of tune again.
God: Do you think that if Mozart sat down to your piano, he could not make it brilliant?
Me: No. He could make it sing.
God: Even so. I am your Mozart.
Me: "You have this treasure in jars of clay..."
Me: I am the clay.
I look down at my body where I am sitting and seem to see and feel intense light piercing a plain, earthen vessel.
Me: Yes, I see. You are already here! It is already apparent this surpassing greatness is from God and not from myself.