Hands

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.