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THY HANDS

Thy hands that mold the soul
as clay on a spinning wheel
of grace, with gentle
bends without breaks;

Thy hands where Mary once wept,
and to where masses once drew;
whose touch the lepers knew;

where a blind man that could not see
felt the thumbprints and Thomas the scars;
Thy hands that calmed a raging sea,
and formed the stars;

Thy hands a lunatic embraced
in saneness, once clothe,
and willing to follow Thee
wherever Thou would go;

Thy hands which blessed two fishes
and five loaves to feed the masses,
returning in twelve baskets;

Thy hands that bled,
pierced by nails upon a tree,
stretched out with full forgiveness
for all who will believe;

Thy hands that hold the keys
to release one from their trials
in death, as in life,
that will carry to the other side;

Thy hands of the one from Galilee;
of the Great, "I Am";
the one who is Holy;
Jesus, The Lamb;

is where I want to be!

Written July 22, 2002: 5:44 AM CST