Hands

For a period of time God had me thinking about my hands. It was so gentle that I really didn't pay much attention but after awhile I asked, holding them both up and staring at them, "Lord what about my hands"? I then began to write and over an extended period of time wrote the following. The verse of scripture at the end He gave me as a post script to His message. May this touch your heart and spirit in considering the hands of the master.

by Frank Lee Jennings, ca. 1980


Tiny hands. Hands that could grasp nothing larger
than a mother’s finger, or pull awkwardly at the
soft blanket wrapped all around. Hands made into
miniature fists that rubbed sleep filled eyes.

Small hands. Growing hands. Hands that carried
vessels to and from the well. Hands that gathered
kindling wood into a small bundle. A child’s hands
that gently caressed the small animals, then fed
them.

Learning hands. Hands quick to help, before
request was made. Skillful hands that learned to
shape and fit rough wood into useful objects
Tired honest hands that were calloused

Folded hands. Attentive hands that were still as
God’s word was read and prayers were made. 
Hands clasped in earnestness of supplication.

Confident hands. Hands of a man of thirty reaching out 
to take the book of the prophet Isaiah from the scribe. 
Hands come of age. Hands stretched toward heaven.

Healing hands laid upon lepers covered with
decaying flesh. Hands unafraid. Fingers of healing
hands removed from ears no longer deaf. Hands still 
reaching out to the forgotten, not forgotten by Him.

Gentle hands. Hands eagerly sought out by the
little ones. Hands that ran through the tangled
locks of Hebrew children, then lifted small faces
for a better look. Hands laid on little ones
and blessings pronounced.

Hands of authority. Hands that overthrew tables
of merchants in the house of God. Hands
plaiting a scourge of cords to separate sheep 
from goats. Wheat from chaff.

Writing hands. Hands that wrote in the dust of the
road. Hands writing mercy and forgiveness in the
heart of a woman brought before him. Hands that
continue to write those same things in the hearts
of us that are made from dust.

Hands of humility. Hands that formed the twelve
from dust, then came and washed the dust from
their feet. Hands still willing to wash the dust
of life and sin from our feet and from our soul.

Hands of provision. Hands that blessed the bread
and fishes, then multiplied them for thousands.
Hands of compassion stretched out to the
multitudes they could not reach for shortness of
time. Hands stretched out over the ages to us now.

Hands in the garden. Hands of supplication,
stretched out to the Father’s Throne. Obedient
hands accepting the work set before them. Work
ordained before time had meaning.

Hands bound. Hands led from one hypocrite to
another and from mockery to mockery. Innocent
hands clean of sin. Hands with open palms and
nothing to hide. Hands never raised in unjust
anger. Bloodless hands.

Cruel hands. Hands beating and torturing the one
with hands so gentle. Hands that plaited a crown
of thorns and forced it onto the head of the good
shepherd.

Hands with splinters. Hands bloody, with hardly
the strength to bear a wooden cross the
prescribed distance to its center place on the hill.
Hands nearing the end of their heavenly mission.

Helping hands, also gentle, placed on the Master’s
blood and dirt encrusted hands to help carry the
burden. Helping hands desired by the Master still.

Wounded hands. The kind and gentle hands 
with spikes pounded through them. 
Hands that could not reach toward Heaven
or stroke a child’s locks. 

Hands come to the dust of death.
Still hands. Hands no longer a threat to their
accusers. Hands lifeless and scarred. 
Hands now unable to hold bread or fishes.

Grieving hands, also gentle. Preparing with spices
and ointments the body of Jesus, son of God, for
burial. Hands now folded across his bosom.

Hands frozen in fear. Hands of guards at the
tomb unable to move as the Angel of God rolls 
back the stone. Rolls back death and our curse of sin.

Hands alive! Hands alive forevermore.
Hands again reaching for fish and honeycomb.
Hands motioning, comforting, healing
and doing the Father's business 

Hands writing a new covenant in the dust.
Writing in the heart of us formed from the dust.
A perfect completed work written by the Master writer.

Hands multiplied. Hands of adopted sons and
daughters reaching forth with the Master’s love.
Hands that have grasped the Master’s strong right
hand.

The nail scars have not weakened his hands, but
bear eternal witness to his utter faithfulness.
Thank you Father for your hands, for they will
always strengthen and steady mine.

Psalm: 89:13 Thou hast a mighty arm: strong is thy
hand, and high is thy right hand.

Excellent! His hands are all over this!

Evident is the nudge, the push, the urging, the prompt, the gift, the inspiration, the "Life" and the obedience to know when to "move" in the spirit even if it only be on faith alone.
His "grace" is sufficient. BEAUTIFUL!

Hands forcing a crown of thorns down upon the head of the Good Shepherd. Painful image to any believer but also a measurement of His love. The poem is long and the interest never wanes. Bravo Frank and keep writing. The brimming heart that I see here will be given much more by way of shining assignment. Listen and write..Don't think...Write.