Poetry

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The Hands of Jesus

I close my eyes
and see,
a popular plaster statue
of Jesus’ hands
praying to the Father.

They were in our home,
our neighbor’s house, and friends
of my family.

As a child, I’d touch them,
softly, tenderly, and
reverently.

And wonder
about His hands,
their warmth, his touch
his blessings.

Were they soft,
or were they hard,
calloused from carpentry,
or what?

What were they like
when
clasped in prayer,
entwined in supplication,
or wrung in the
Garden of Gethsemne?

Were they gentle
when washing others feet,
or open for the
doubting Thomas touch?

Were they hot
when he healed others,
or cool when he stepped
from the conquered grave?

Picture them
raised in blessing,
quieting a crowd,
raising the dead,
or whipping the temple clean.

Feel them,
their loving touch,
the touch of forgiveness,
the nail holes
in hands or wrist.

Picture them,
in prayer
to his Father,
our Father,
not for himself,
always for us.

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