These hands of mine are bruised and scarred,
But never will they know
The marks inflicted by a mob
Because I'd loved them so.
These hands have stroked a fevered child,
Yet didn't have that power
To heal or raise by just a touch,
Or make the demons cower.
My hands have used the tools of life,
Small works have they unfurled;
But even on the best of days
Would not create a world!
And hands like mine may lead awhile
Along an Earthly trail,
But only as they work for God,
Will their good works prevail.
With the Master, all is possible,
He can use these as His own
If I trust His might, He will place the Light
That leads others to His home.
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