A tiny baby reaches
His little hands for His mother’s touch.
As she snuggles Him against her breast
He reaches out and holds her finger
In His soft, tiny hands.
Reaching out to hold His mother’s hand
As He toddles around the house, then holding
The furniture as He further explores His world.
His hands gather her hair as she once again
Cradles Him against her breast.
Working in the wood shop with His father.
Stripping bark from the wood, sawing, shaping,
Planing; fragrant wood chips falling everywhere.
Roughened hands shaping furniture and ploughshares.
Calloused hands caress His mother’s face.
Reaching out to those in need, for healing, for life,
He leaves home to join His Heavenly Father
In His new work.
His coarse hands gently move over fevered brows,
Touching the untouchable, and holding the hands of
Little children sitting on his lap.
Bound tightly by harsh ropes and handed over for trial.
His hands carrying the cross of His destiny.
His hands stretched out
Pierced for you and me.
Dripping with blood for our salvation.
His hands, inscribed with our names in His wounds
For all eternity. His hands stretched out,
entreating us, inviting us,
To come, to touch,