And our hands tell the story of our lives.
Without words they form more powerful images
than the tongue could ever speak.
Big hands, small hands
gentle hand, rough hands
soft hands, calloused hands,
sweaty hands, chapped hands.
Hands are not simple.
They are more complex
than what meets the eye.
Hands are alive.
They reach out to comfort.
They recoil in fear.
They are instruments of kindness,
messengers of wrath.
And I long to see
the beauty of Your hands,
the hands that formed
me in my mother’s womb,
the hands that with one soft stroke
carved out the Grand Canyon.
And I long to touch the hands,
the hands that hold me in the dark
and gently wipe away my tears,
the hands that dug the bed of the seas
and dripped into them salty sweat.
And I long to kiss the hands,
the hands that were scarred for me,
the hands that bore the nails of the cross
for my sin, my guilt, my shame.
The hands that lift me up and carry me
when I am weary and exhausted.
And I lift my hands
in submission and praise to You.
I surrender all.
Oh Lord, take my hands
and make them pleasing to You.
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