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Discussion in 'Literature and Poetry' started by clawmute, May 7, 2008.

  1. Hands


    By Frank Lee Jennings, aka Clawmute

    ©2008 All Copyrights remain with the author


    It was 24 or 25 years ago when God started dealing with me about my hands. I just felt that there was something about my hands that I needed to do. This went on for I don’t know how long, then, I knew that I was supposed to write this.

    Tiny hands. Hands that could grasp nothing larger than a mother’s finger, or pull awkwardly at the soft blanket wrapped all around. Hands made into miniature fists that rubbed sleep filled eyes.

    Small hands. Growing hands. Hands that carried vessels to and from the well. Hands that gathered kindling wood into a small bundle. A child’s hands that gently caressed the small animals, then fed them.

    Learning hands. Hands quick to help, before request was made. Skillful hands that learned to shape and fit rough wood into useful objects. Tired honest hands that were calloused.

    Folded hands. Attentive hands that were still as God’s word was read and prayers were made. Hands clasped in earnestness of supplication.

    Confident hands. Hands of a man of thirty reaching out to take the book of the prophet Isaiah from the scribe. Hands that had come of age.

    Healing hands laid upon lepers covered with decaying flesh. Hands unafraid. Fingers of healing hands removed from ears no longer deaf. Hands reaching out to the forgotten. Hands still reaching out today.

    Gentle hands. Hands eagerly sought out by the little ones. Hands that ran through the tangled locks of Hebrew children, then lifted small faces for a better look. Hands laid on the little ones and blessings pronounced.

    Hands of authority. Hands that overthrew merchant’s tables in the house of God. Hands plaiting a scourge of cords to separate sheep from goats. Wheat from chaff.

    Writing hands. Hands that wrote in the dust of the road. Hands writing mercy and forgiveness in the heart of a woman brought before him. Hands that continue to write those same things in the hearts of us that are made from dust.

    Hands of humility. Hands that formed the twelve from dust then came and washed the dust from their feet. Hands still willing to wash the dust of life and sin from our feet and from our soul.

    Hands of provision. Hands that blessed the bread and fishes, then multiplied them for thousands. Hands of compassion stretched out to the multitudes they could not reach for shortness of time. Timeless hands stretched out over the ages to us now.

    Hands in the garden. Hands of supplication, stretched out to the Father’s Throne. Obedient hands accepting the work set before them. Work ordained before time had any meaning.

    Hands bound. Hands led from one hypocrite to another and from mockery to mockery. Innocent hands clean of sin. Hands with open palms and nothing to hide. Hands never raised in unjust anger. Bloodless hands.

    Cruel hands. Hands beating and torturing the one with hands so gentle. Hands that plaited a crown of thorns and forced it onto the head of the good shepherd.

    Hands with splinters. Hands bloody, with hardly the strength to bear the wooden cross the prescribed distance to its center place on the hill. Hands nearing the end of their task.

    Helping hands, also gentle, placed on the Master’s blood and dirt encrusted hands to help carry the burden. Helping hands desired by the Master still.

    Wounded hands. The kind and gentle hands with steel spikes pounded through them. Hands that could not reach toward Heaven, or stroke a child’s locks. Hands come to the dust of death.

    Still hands. Hands encrusted with dirt and blood. Hands no longer a threat to their accusers. Hands lifeless and scarred. Hands now unable to hold bread and fishes.

    Grieving hands, also gentle. Preparing with spices and ointments the body of Jesus, son of God, for burial. Hands now folded across his bosom.

    Hands frozen in fear. Hands of the guards at the tomb unable to move as the Angel of God rolls back the stone. Rolls back death.

    Hands alive! Hands alive forevermore. Hands again reaching for fish and honeycomb. Hands motioning, comforting and doing the Father’s business. Hands writing a new covenant in the dust. Writing in the heart of us formed from the dust. A perfect work written by the master of all writers.

    Hands multiplied. Hands of adopted sons and daughters reaching forth with the Master’s love. Hands that have grasped the Master’s strong right hand.

    Hand in Hand. The nail scars have not weakened his hands, but bear eternal witness to his utter faithfulness. Thank you Father for your hands, for they will always strengthen and steady mine.

    Psalm: 89:13 Thou hast a mighty arm: strong is thy hand, and high is thy right hand.

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