His Hands

Before I cared about his hands, they were scarred.  His hands had been rope-burned as he dropped three stories after the scoffolding had given way, holding on to life, until his safety harness stopped his fall.   The scars were minor.  The scars didn’t take away from the talent of his hands.  They were hard-working hands.  They were strong.

Over the years he had trained his hands to do many things.  They could take down a wall and build a new one.  They could handle a horse, a gun, and a tractor.  His hands welded, hammered and dug.  They caught fish, pitched a tent and made a fire.  His hands could be detailed and gentle, too.  They tied flies.  They changed diapers.  They loved.

His hands had become frail.  The veins had been stabbed with innumerable IV’s.  Their color had changed from tan, to yellow, to gray.  The fat was completely gone making the shape of the bones visible.  The fingers and palms had changed from callused and tough with hard work, to peeling and painful with chemotherapy, to thin and fragile with dehydration.  His hands shook with weakness. 

Now they were quiet.  They were resting on the cover of his cherished Bible.  They were a good color.  The flesh had an appearance of some fatness over the bones.  His hands were as I remembered them.

“Thank you,”  I paused at the reception desk in the mortuary on my way out.  “Thank you for what you did with his hands.”

There is another pair of Hands.  Before I knew or cared about His Hands, they were scarred.  His Hands were scarred as He gave His life so his hands could one day live again.  They were scarred so my hands could live eternally.  When I see His Hands for the first time I will bow low on my knees and say “Thank You!  Thank You for what You did with Your Hands.”

His Hands

    “But He was wounded for our transgressions, 
      He was bruised for our iniquities;
      The chastisement for our peace was upon Him,
      And by His stripes we are healed. ”  Isaiah 53:5

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