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TITLE: His Hands By Karri Compton 11/06/04 |
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His Hands
There they were, those tiny hands,
perfect and so small;
Mother holds them lovingly
Still in humble awe.
Hard at work they must have been,
building with His “Dad”;
callused from His carpentry
since He was just a lad.
Opening and closing scrolls
within the temple wall;
teaching with uplifted hands
caused a hush to fall.
Hands outstretched made His appeal:
“Come and follow me.”
Setting His disciples down,
He humbly washed their feet.
Touching leprous, blind, possessed,
people deemed unclean;
through His hands of power
many miracles were seen.
Splintered hands from rugged wood
were nailed into that tree,
bleeding precious drops of blood
available for me.
Strength of hands omnipotent
invisibly moved stone;
newly resurrected life
that we can call our own.
Hands ascended heavenward
His earthly hours done;
God prepared to greet again
His dearly treasured Son.
Yes, His hands are still at work
they draw us near to God;
on hearing a repentant cry,
they roaringly applaud.
Our hands are instruments of love,
His field of souls to tend;
Until we see Him face to face
And hear, “Well done, My friend.”
Karri F. Compton
Copyright 1998, 2004 rev.
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