My hands are his to use, to move, to do his work, to be his love. These are the hands of God.
They are the hands of God. These hands.
Just common, corporeal stuff. But mine.
These uncommon wonders of God’s design.
He put himself into my hands.
His life is in my hands.
His strength in tight, white-knuckled grasp.
His love in healing, blood-warmed caress.
His wrath in tense, fists-formed to judge.
His mercy in tender, skin-sensing touch.
His humanity, in fingers of embracing care.
His divinity, in palms lifted open in prayer.
His goodness, in fruits of earth in hand.
His beauty, in hints of a heavenly dance.
His life is in my hands. His life.
In these fragile, skin-wrapped members,
Bone and blood, muscle and tendon.
In these mortal, decaying appendages,
He lives and moves, his life transcending
The calloused sins, the dirt and dearth
The grip on things that have no worth
The striking pain, the shame and guilt
The failings only grace can heal.
His life is in my hands. My hands.
Grabbing, grasping, reaching, longing.
Helping, holding, bleeding, mourning.
Opening, closing, taking, giving.
Growing, aging, dying, living.
My hands are his to use, to move.
To do his work, to be his love.
To offer to a wanting world
His light and life, his way and word.
They are, indeed, the hands of God.
These are the hands of God.
By Clay Clarkson (2019) - Based on prose written for a Creative Writing class in Denver Seminary ca. 1985 led by Dr. Bruce Shelley, my favorite professor.