Father, what is this in your hand, and why does your face look so sad?
My son, this is clay, the kind I made you from, Once it was pliable and soft, but when I formed it's eyes and it saw who I was, it couldn't stay still and let Me finish.
What did it do?
Well son, it went to find more clay out on the battle field and got so involved, it didn't see me anymore. Nor did it see it was beginning to harden.
But it looks done to me, it has all it needs.
No son, I was not able to finish the part where my love goes to keep it soft and usable.
Father don't cry, is there anything i can do?
Maybe son, if you wrapped it in a blanket of love...