His hands - tools of creation, stronger than nations, power without end. And, yet, through them, we find our truest friend. His hands - sermons of kindness, healing men's blindness, halting years of pain; children waiting to be held again.
His hands would serve his whole life through, showing men what hands might do, giving, ever giving, endlessly. Each day was filled with selflessness and I'll not rest til I make up my hands, what they could be. Til these hands become like those from Galilee.
His hands - lifting a leper, helping a beggar, calling back the dead... breaking bread, five thousand fed. His hands - hushing contention, pointing to Heaven, ever free of sin, then bidding them to follow Him.
His hands would serve his whole life through, showing men what hands might do, giving, ever giving, endlessly. Each day was filled with selflessness and I'll not rest til I make up my hands, what they could be. Til these hands become like those from Galilee.
His hands - gasp in agony, as He lay bleeding, bleeding in the garden. While just moments away, other hands betray Him, out of greed - shameful greed. And then His hands are trembling, straining to carry the beam that they were nailed to, as He stumbles through the streets, heading for the hill, on which He died. He would die.
They take His hands, His mighty hands, those gentle hands - and then they pierced them. They pierced them. He lets them because of love. From birth to death was selflessness and clearly now, I see Him with His hands, calling to me.
And, though I'm not yet as I should be, He has shown me how I could be. I will make my hands like those from Galilee.
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