His Hands
With muscles tensed and skin pulled tight
His knuckles barred in the noonday light
I see his hands pushing and pressing, working hard
Sun stained skin all calloused and scarred.
But the man from the mountains takes me in his hands, twirling me around
And I feel their strength as he dips me to the ground.
I am pulled back up as he embraces and cradles me
These hard hands now soft as can be.
And suddenly I see the Lord cutting and carving wood
With splinters and blisters and blood.
I see His hands as He works, nothing but a simple man
Yet so much more in His Father’s immense plan.
I see the Father now, God Himself at the potter’s wheel.
My visions moving and becoming more and more real.
At the wheel His hands are molding, shaping, cutting, pressing
Forming all creation before resting.
But on Earth His hands are working with His Word, serving, healing and loving all
Rocking hearts and shaking lives to live worthy of His call.
His hands that hung from the cross with blood running down His wrists
Came back to life, holes and all, to show us death has dies and victory is His.
And in this dream I realize His hands, though rough and raw
Are the most tender, most strong, most loving of all.
They took on nails, blood, shame, hatred; every kind of sin
Yet because of His obedience and humility, all are able to live.
Thinking of how much His hands are doing throughout time and space
My love of Him burns deeper and ache for the day I will see His Holy face.
But now I picture His hands taking mine in his and again twirling me
Up and under, all around His guiding and leading strong and free.
Oh to hold His precious hands
Now and for eternity!
This friend…
This lover…
This Father…
And savior,
Jesus my King!
