Hands
by Frank Lee Jennings
all rights reserved ©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.
Healing hands laid upon lepers covered with
decaying flesh. Hands unafraid. Fingers of healing
hands removed from ears no longer deaf. Hands
reaching out to the forgotten. Hands still
reaching out today.
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 the little ones
and blessings pronounced.
Hands of authority. Hands that overthrew the
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 the wooden cross the
rescribed distance to its center place on the
hill. Hands nearing the end of their task.
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 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 and 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 the guards at the
tomb unable to move as the Angel of God rolls back the stone. Rolls back death.
Hands alive! Hands alive forevermore. Hands again reaching for fish and honeycomb. Hands motioning, comforting 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 work written by the master of all writers.
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.
It's been 35 years or so since God gave this to me. For several days I remember that I kept noticing my hands. Then He began giving me the above words. The scripture at the end He gave me after I finished writing.
In His service,
Frank Lee Jennings
by Frank Lee Jennings
all rights reserved ©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.
Healing hands laid upon lepers covered with
decaying flesh. Hands unafraid. Fingers of healing
hands removed from ears no longer deaf. Hands
reaching out to the forgotten. Hands still
reaching out today.
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 the little ones
and blessings pronounced.
Hands of authority. Hands that overthrew the
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 the wooden cross the
rescribed distance to its center place on the
hill. Hands nearing the end of their task.
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 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 and 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 the guards at the
tomb unable to move as the Angel of God rolls back the stone. Rolls back death.
Hands alive! Hands alive forevermore. Hands again reaching for fish and honeycomb. Hands motioning, comforting 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 work written by the master of all writers.
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.
It's been 35 years or so since God gave this to me. For several days I remember that I kept noticing my hands. Then He began giving me the above words. The scripture at the end He gave me after I finished writing.
In His service,
Frank Lee Jennings
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